Body and Soul
by Aislinn Gesine
Summary: The thing about an apocalypse is that it changes people.   AudreyGabriel
1. The Morning After

Not gonna lie, I wasn't in love with Legion when I first saw it, but it grew on me, due in no small part to lilyfox (dA) and the power of the small, but devoted fandom. The great thing about this movie is how much emotion lies under it, thanks to the fantastic cast. Kevin Durand breaks my heart.

So here is my contribution to the archives.

A note: I omit the 'o' from the word 'G-d' for personal reasons. I'm sorry if it bothers you, and I'll explain if asked, but I am not in a position to make changes. Thanks for humoring me. :]

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><p>No one ever said how much it would hurt.<p>

Audrey had long since given up screaming. She was gasping, now, just gasping for air through a throat bruised and raw and swollen. She couldn't feel her body. All there was was pain, searing, blinding, terrible pain, and as a fresh pulse of it ripped through her body, Audrey twitched and cried out. The cry died in a choke, a choke that made her cough, a cough that made her twitch, a twitch that made the pain surge afresh. She closed her eyes against the pain, gritted her teeth, and tried to ride it out, tried to stay calm and wait for it to subside just a little. Her good hand fisted in the sand, pressing the tiny granules against smooth, unbroken flesh. It felt odd—smooth, cold, a little gritty—and it was something different. Audrey opened her eyes, squinted at the sand, opened her hand and watched it filter out between her fingers. The sand was silver in the moonlight, and Audrey thought, briefly, that it was beautiful.

She'd always heard that death was peaceful, a soft movement; you died in your sleep, or in a split second of change. Death was a doorway—you were on one side, and then the other. No lingering, no agony, nothing. You were, and then you weren't.

A fresh wave of agony ripped through her and she screamed, screamed on a bloody, raw, and dying breath.

No one ever said how much it would hurt to die.

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><p><em>"I would not have shown you such mercy."<em>

_ "I know. That is why you failed him." _

Gabriel had never known the sensation of words echoing inside his mind. He knew what it was for them to resonate, humming with the pulse of his blood through his veins, full of the power and greatness that was G-d, but he had never known them to echo. They repeated, over and over, inside his head, as he stared out across the desert from his seat atop the billboard.

He had not returned to heaven. He could not. Michael's words haunted him, and his chest felt as if someone had carved out his organs and filled the cavity with cold air. He didn't realize it, but his shoulders were hunched, his body curved to protect the hollowness.

_That is why you failed him._

Gabriel shuddered and tightened his grip on the metal edge of the sign. "I have done my duty," he growled, as if Michael could hear him, but even as the words left his lips, he knew it was a lie. Michael had spoken the truth. Gabriel had, somehow, in obeying G-d's command, failed him utterly. He had sinned.

And, he realized, in a sudden moment of bitter clarity, he must atone.

_Archangels do not atone,_ he thought, his jaw clenching at the thought. They had never _needed_ to atone before, as they had never sinned. But somehow, in this apocalypse, this second cleansing, everything had changed. G-d had changed. The world had changed. Michael had changed.

Gabriel didn't understand, and it made him angry.

He had sat and thought for too long. Restlessness burned under his skin, sizzled through his muscles. His wings twitched in a metallic rustle of feathers, and he stood, balancing with ease on the thin edge of the billboard for the single moment before he spread his wings and launched himself into the air.

He didn't know where he was going, but he knew he could not return to Heaven yet. Gabriel gritted his jaw and turned west, flying low, so his shadow skimmed across the black line of the highway below him. He followed the road, for the sake of a direction, not caring where it led him. The road continued on, unchanging, for miles.

And then, some fifteen minutes and three miles later, the dark grey of the asphalt was suddenly interrupted by a pair of black streaks, and an explosion of shattered glass. Gabriel frowned and banked, spiraling down to land softly on the highway.

He remembered, as he bent to touch the shards of glass: the police car, the three humans screaming, and above their pitch, that baby. The man had slammed down on the brakes, and the car had spun out of control, sending Gabriel, and the girlchild clinging to him, through the windshield.

Gabriel stood and turned in a slow circle, scanning the desert. They had bounced when they hit the asphalt, three times. The girlchild's grip had gone slack after the first impact, and when he landed the second time, he hadn't felt her arms around his neck. She would have been thrown into the air, ten or fifteen feet at least, when she let go of him. He thought for a moment, considering their velocity and trajectory, and then turned and walked into the desert.

He was right. A few yards from his location, the prickly desert brush had been disturbed. Gabriel picked his way over, mindful of the thorns, and found her.

She had skidded when she hit the ground, judging by the broken branches and streaks of blood. The path extended a few feet, from the first indent of her landing to where she lay.

Gabriel moved to stand beside the girlchild's body. The sun was rising beside him, slanting his shadow along the side of her body.

"Unfortunate," he murmured, noting the angle to her neck, the bend to her left wrist, and the protuberance in her right calf where the bone pressed against her skin. She had likely broken several ribs, as well. Gabriel was not surprised—Humans were fragile creatures, and this girl, with her thin limbs and elongated skeleton, was no exception. Her body was built for running, or perhaps dancing. She was not designed to survive any strong impact, especially not the one she had recently suffered.

Gabriel knelt, his knees digging into the blood-stained sand. He had to respect her strength. She was physically weak, but she had courage and persistence. She had held onto him until her arms failed to function properly. Gabriel reached for her skirt, which had flipped up, and replaced it over her posterior.

At the touch of his fingers on her thigh, goosebumps rose on her skin

Gabriel whipped his head around to stare at her face. That was impossible. No human could survive such an impact. She could not be alive.

Her face was absolutely still, her eyes closed. He couldn't hear any rasp of breath from between her lips. Gabriel shifted and placed his left hand over her heart, his fingertips light against the thin fabric of her shirt. For a moment, there was nothing—and then the barest flutter of a heartbeat.

Gabriel immediately moved and pressed his right palm to her chest. He could feel her soul moving under his fingers, restless, eager to be free of the broken body it inhabited. A few more moments, another broken breath, a handful of stuttering heartbeats, and her body would give out.

Gabriel frowned. Her soul was ready to be free, but her body was clinging to life, fighting fiercely. She was undoubtedly in excruciating pain. There was nothing good waiting for her, only a broken and bleeding shell and a world she would not recognize. He knew of her parents, had known of their story the moment her father was possessed. When his body came under the influence of the angels, his mind was present to everyone, for a moment. It had been enough. Both of this girlchild's parents were dead. She had no home to return to, and the new location they had been traveling to was useless to her. She had no extended family to live with, nowhere to go.

And still, she fought. Her heart was slowing, now, the ventricles' pulses mere flutters under Gabriel's hand. Her lungs expanded once, barely, and expelled the air more as a function of gravity than muscle. Her soul pulled against the bond tethering it, quivering as the chains cracked. It was so close to being free.

Gabriel decided that would not do.

He pressed his hand down, fingers curling as he caught hold of her soul and held it in place. "No," he Said, and his Voice resonated down through his hand, into the girlchild's body. "You will stay. Live."

The hum of the fricative burst from his lips, spiraling through his arm and pressing against her skin. A moment, and then her heartbeat came, strong and insistent. Gabriel lifted his hand, and her chest moved with it as her lungs expanded, filling with much-needed oxygen.

And that was where his abilities ended. Gabriel could tap into the electricity of the human body, speak to the mind and the heart, force muscles to contract and synapses to fire, but he couldn't regrow bone or restitch muscle. That would take time, and a careful hand.

Gabriel possessed both of these.

He gathered the girlchild into his arms, cradling her against his chest, careful not to compress her ribs, and with a single stroke of his wings lifted them both into the air.

She wouldn't die. Her body, the traitorous shell of sin and decay, had wanted to live, and he had listened. He would heal her, tend to her, act as Michael would have done. He would save her.


	2. Psalm 91:4

Thank you so much, all of you, for your kind reviews! I've never had a story receive such a positive response. I love that I'm creating something you enjoy.

I originally intended for this chapter to be split in half and updated as two separate chapters, but I felt it was moving too slow. That, and I desperately wanted to introduce you to Apple, so I decided not to wait.

My updates and chapter lengths will both be erratic, and for that, I'm sorry; I'd love to guarantee constancy, but I'm just not that sort. This update also removes all my backlog, so it could be a while.

Thank you all for your responses and your enjoyment! 3

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><p>Gabriel was not fond of human architecture; their structures were crude and ugly, and protruded from the landscape like concrete tumors. Precious few of their architects had ever succeeded in doing justice to the materials provided to them. Michael undoubtedly found beauty in their concrete boxes, their towers of glass. Gabriel felt more at home in a child's tree house.<p>

He knew that a tree house would not provide enough shelter, however, and so Gabriel was forced to settle for a small house he discovered some three or four miles off the highway, nestled at the bottom of a hill. There was a "for sale" sign beside the driveway, with a dull red "sold" sticker slapped over it. Gabriel knocked down the sign with a sweep of his wing. The house was not available.

The previous occupants had been gone for some time—the house's door was still on its hinges, which meant there had been no humans to invite angelic possession. It was locked. Gabriel stooped and felt under the mat, then reached up to the top of the doorframe. The key was there, secured in place with a single piece of scotch tape.

Predictable.

The house was dusty with disuse, and judging from the chill swirl of air, a window somewhere was either open or broken. There were no personal effects—no pictures, no electronics, none of those little ceramic tchotkes women seemed so fond of—but there was a table in the dining room, a couch in the living room, a bookcase with random volumes stacked on its bottom shelf: things the previous owners hadn't wanted to take with them.

Gabriel had his thoughts on the practices of humans with too many possessions, and he wanted to explore the property—he had seen another building beside the house, and what looked to be a field—but the quiver of the soul inside the girlchild's chest reminded him that there was no time to lose. Gabriel found his way to the bathroom, where he laid the girl down on the tile floor. He was careful not to jostle her, but despite his caution, she still made a sound as he set her down—a single, unconscious moan that overflowed with pain.

Gabriel frowned, stood, and began to search the house.

There were adequate supplies scattered across rooms and in closets. From the closet in the hall, he pulled an old sheet and two threadbare, but clean towels. In one of the bedrooms, he found a forgotten box of clothes, which included an oversized shirt. In the kitchen, he found a bottle with barely an inch of soap in the bottom and, below the sink, what he needed most of all: a large, white, plastic box emblazoned with a red cross. Gabriel set it down on the kitchen counter and opened it, riffling through the thick rolls of gauze and adhesive bandages. Buried in the back, sealed in sterile packets, sat six semicircular needles, and a thick length of surgical silk.

Gabriel snapped the box shut, tucked it under his arm, and headed back to the bathroom.

Audrey hadn't moved. He could see her heart beating, making the thin, torn fabric across her chest quiver, and her chest rose and fell steadily, if shallowly. Gabriel touched his right hand to her heart, and at the shiver of her soul, Said, "Stay."

Her soul quivered, but stayed put.

Gabriel had treated many a wound in his time. Angelic physiology was far superior to humans, but the rules were the same. He washed his hands, filled the sink with hot water and drew his knife.

Her clothes could hardly be called clothes. They were torn and tattered from her fall, revealing far more of her underthings than any outfit ever should. Gabriel worked his tongue in a silent murmur for propriety as he cut her clothes away, careful and clinical, and went to work.

The damage was extensive. Gabriel wished he had painkillers—even unconscious, Audrey shifted and resisted the stab of the needle into her skin, the sting of the sanitizer on her open wounds—but he had no time to retrieve them. He treated wound after wound, moving as quickly and as thoroughly as he knew how.

Her neck was the least of his worries—the muscles were only strained. She would be sore, but there wouldn't be any lasting damage. However, her left wrist and right tibia were broken, and these he set with makeshift splints from the boards of an abandoned bed frame. He taped her three fractured ribs, and slipped her left arm into a sling to support them. Eighteen stitches went into the gash on her lower left side—the source of most of the blood—nine into her shoulder, eight into her foot, five into her thigh, and four beside her ear.

Now that the worst of the damage was tended to, and the blood flow stopped, Gabriel slowed down. The girl's body desperately needed to be cleaned—her skin was caked with sand, dirt, and dried blood—but Gabriel wouldn't do her the indignity of removing her underclothes. Instead, he ripped the second towel into pieces and soaked them with clean, warm water, then smoothed the cloth over the girl's forehead.

It took two passes, but the dirt and dried blood came off, revealing thin, pale skin. Gabriel rinsed the cloth and moved on, wiping her cheeks, her nose, her chin. There was dirt in her ears, too, which he spent a while cleaning out. There was nothing he could do for her hair without jostling her neck, so he scrubbed lightly at her hairline, and then moved on.

Under his hands, she felt tiny, fragile, as if a single slip of his fingers could break her bones. This was true, but what mattered to Gabriel wasn't the fact of it, but the sensation. Their skin was a study in contrast: hers, pale and smooth; his, sun-darkened and callused from millennia of use. His hands were massive against her tiny bones. Gabriel found himself wondering at the difference between them as he lifted her arm to clean her elbow—he could encircle her wrist with his pinky and thumb—and sighed. He was turning into Michael.

That thought led to another, and Gabriel paused, the girl's arm still lifted in his hand. Was this what Michael found precious about humans? Their fragility? Almost absent-mindedly, Gabriel moved his right hand above the girl's heart, and felt the hum of her soul. It seemed content, for now, to stay put.

Gabriel shook his head and took his hand away, replacing the girl's arm at her side. He didn't understand. Michael may well love their fragility, but that was no different than loving a swallow, or a mouse. They were tiny, delicate, stupid things, subject to G-d's whims.

Gabriel washed as much of the girl's body as he could, doing his best to preserve her dignity, and then blotted her dry with the other towel. She would need to take a proper bath when she awoke, but it could wait. Gabriel wrapped her in the sheet he had found, lifted her carefully in her arms, and carried her into one of the bedrooms, where a bare mattress lay abandoned on the carpet. It would do. He laid her down, tucking the sheet around her, and placed a coat from the box of abandoned clothes over her for the warmth.

A touch of his right hand above her heart to reassert that her soul wasn't going anywhere, and then he returned to the bathroom to tend to his own wounds.

Gabriel had ignored the pain from the stomach wound Michael had inflicted with relative ease; he had been wounded before, and he knew he wasn't in danger of dying. There had been more pressing matters. But now that the girl was tended to, Gabriel was again aware of the pain in his abdomen, the wet warmth of the blood soaking through his vest and armor. He filled the bathtub with cold water, and then stood in the middle of the tiny, blue-tiled bathroom and removed his armor, piece by piece, with the ease of routine.

His belt came first, then the star-shaped bandolier spanning his chest, the bottom straps of which had been cut by Michael's sword. Both splashed into the tub. Next went his pteruges, his breastplate and his spaulders, his couter and his wristbands, until Gabriel stood in only his trousers, boots, and thick leather vest.

The vest had to be untied below the arms, which Gabriel did with some difficulty, before it could be pulled off. When Gabriel did pull it away, he did so with a grimace—the leather stuck to the skin around the wound, and made a sickening, wet sound as it let go.

The gash was deep. Gabriel tossed his vest and the thin tunic underneath it into the water, which was slowly but steadily turning rust-red, and rinsed his hands in the sink, then looked in the mirror as he spread the wound. Michael had been merciful: his sword had cut into Gabriel's abdominal muscles, but only just. Gabriel rinsed his hands again—the blood had started anew when he pulled at his skin—and pulled the last of the needles and the surgical thread from the first aid kit.

Angels usually tended to their own wounds, when they had them. Most celestial battles were of the metaphysical kind, and marked with blows to the heart and mind, not the body. Still, all angels knew first aid, and the archangels tended to be particularly proficient in it, having millennia more experience than their subordinates. Gabriel had sewn together his own incisions, a number of them deeper than this, but none of the others had been inflicted by his own brother. With every stab of the needle through his flesh, Gabriel remembered the slice of the sword, and his frown grew.

Michael had changed.

That thought kept rolling around in his mind. Michael had changed_. _Michael had _changed_. Something in him had morphed, adjusted, grown to give him the wisdom to defy G-d, and do so in the right. Gabriel couldn't understand. Yes, angels weren't always obedient, and the archangels in particular had a knack for slipping around the edge of the rules once in a while, for petty, frivolous reasons, but a spoken Law was _never_ disobeyed. It was out of fear of G-d, but not fear as humans knew it. The fear the angels had of G-d was born of love, of adoration, of respect. It was born of awe. There was a natural hierarchy to the universe, and no matter how archangels and angels and humans and demons ranked, G-d was at the top. He was the Supreme Being, the One, Yaweh: "I Am Who I Am."

How was it that Michael was right?

Gabriel rinsed his hands for the eighth time and tied off the fourteenth stitch, then began again.

Those who disobeyed G-d paid the ultimate price. Those who presumed themselves above their level, outside the hierarchy, fell.

_How you are fallen from heaven, o morning star!_

Gabriel shivered and tied off the sixteenth stitch.

There was something he did not understand, something important. Something critical. Some crucial part of the puzzle before him was missing, and Gabriel knew, in his heart, that he could not return to Heaven until he understood what it was.

That thought made his heart clench. Gabriel paused in the middle of the nineteenth stitch and bowed his head, closing his eyes. Every angel, no matter their rank, felt an inexorable pull to Heaven, to their G-d. They could not ignore it any more than they could ignore their own existence. And yet, Gabriel knew he could not return.

The archangel swallowed and finished the last stitch, then threw the needle away.

If he was to remain here, separated from Heaven, he might as well start at the beginning, and get to know his surroundings.

Gabriel wiped down his abdomen, removing most of the blood and grime, then went to check on the girl. She had changed: the rise and fall of her chest, the frown on her face, the struggle of her soul had all eased. She was no longer unconscious, merely sleeping the sleep of the deathly exhausted.

Gabriel adjusted the jacket over her and left the room. She would not wake up for a very long time.

Gabriel stopped on his way down the hall to pull his tunic from the tub, rinse it with cold, clear water, and wring it out before shrugging it on. He didn't mind that it was still damp. He then picked up his mace—more out of force of habit than actual need—and began to explore.

He started outside. The house was surrounded by scrubby grass, rough and green from the winter desert rains. There was a field, fenced in by rough-cut tree limbs fit together like puzzle pieces. Gabriel placed a hand on the fence, nodding in approval. Whoever had constructed the fence understood the uselessness of screws and nails in an environment like this.

Adjacent to the field sat a small barn, the color of wind-burned red paint. Gabriel turned and started toward it. The barn was in good condition. The paint was peeling, but it revealed the dirty white of primer beneath, not splintered old wood. The windows were glass, and the few that were broken were covered with sheets. The door was solidly on its hinges, though it was open. Gabriel stopped at the doorway to inspect the sliding hinge, and deep within the barn, something moved.

He tensed, reaching for the handle of his mace as he peered into the darkness. His eyesight was far superior than any human's, but the barn was dim and filled with paraphernalia that blocked his view.

The noise came again, and Gabriel lifted his mace, slipping inside. Another rustle, and what sounded like a sigh—whoever was there thought they were alone. Gabriel used the noise to guide him, slipping around the side of a tractor, and paused. Another sigh, right around the corner of the protruding wall he stood behind.

Gabriel raised his mace and stepped around the wall, then stopped short, staring.

The horse stared back at him.

"Hm," Gabriel hummed after a moment, lowering his mace. The horse's ears pricked forward, curious. Gabriel put his weapon away and stepped up to the stall door, offering a hand. The horse extended its neck and sniffed his hand, then sighed with disappointment when it didn't find a treat.

Gabriel looked beside the stall door, where a bronze name plate hung, engraved with the word "Apple".

"Apple?" Gabriel repeated with a frown. The horse's ears pricked up and it lipped at his hand again, clearly hoping for the named treat. Gabriel's frowned deepened. "That's a cruel name," he told the horse. "To call you by the name of something you always want, so you're constantly teased by it." The horse—Apple—whickered and stepped up to the door, its hoof thudding against the wood.

"Alright," Gabriel said, and set his mace down against the wall. "I will find you an apple."

This proved to be fairly easy. Gabriel was familiar with the construction of barns, and now that he knew it held livestock, not just things that needed to be stored, he found the tack room with relative ease. The room was warm, and smelled of leather. Inside, a rack that held a few worn saddles and a back pad hung on the wall beside a handful of halters and bridles. There was a chest, as well, inside which random assorted items—wraps, bottles of products and medicine for the horses—and beside that, a tack box. Everywhere, there were indents in the dust, where things had been removed. Whoever had owned this land had owned more than one horse.

Gabriel frowned as he chose a halter and leadrope and slung both over his shoulder, then picked a slightly withered apple from the bucket beside the door. There had been at least three horses here, probably four. There was room enough for them, along with all the equipment, but Gabriel hadn't seen any creatures beside himself and Apple. There had been empty stalls, but they had been long empty—the doors were standing open, and the floors were clean of wood shavings and dusty.

"You are alone, then," he told Apple, when he returned to the stall. The horse whickered again and stretched its neck, reaching for the apple it saw in Gabriel's hand. "One moment," Gabriel chastised, and slipped open the stall door.

Apple stayed put, eyes never leaving the treat in the archangel's hand. Gabriel tossed the lead over the horse's neck and slipped on the halter one-handed, keeping the hand that held the apple away from the horse, and then folded the rope in his fist and said, "Come on."

Apple came.

He led the horse through the barn and out into the early morning sunlight. As soon as they stepped outside, Apple's eyes left the fruit for the first time, and it stared around, almost in shock.

Gabriel waited.

When Apple looked back to him, the archangel began to walk again, leading the horse to the field. There was a gate, but it was crudely made and would need reinforcement. Gabriel made a note to do so, and bought Apple inside the field with him. He closed the gate behind him, removed the halter, hung it on a fence post, and then finally offered Apple the apple.

Apple snatched it from his hand triumphantly and crunched it in two, ignoring the half that fell to the ground, for now. As the horse ate, Gabriel looked it over. Apple was a gelding, middle-aged—fifteen, sixteen perhaps—and had once been well-loved, but now he was underfed and filthy. Gabriel smoothed a hand down his side, feeling the horse's ribs ripple under his hands, and shook his head.

"Why did they leave you?" he asked, as he crouched to retrieve the dropped half of the apple. Apple took it from his hands with considerably more delicacy, his soft lips brushing over Gabriel's palm. Gabriel smoothed his forelock to the side and scratched Apple's forehead, earning a sigh and nudge of the horse's nose.

Apple was sound: he stood square on all four legs, and hadn't limped when Gabriel had led him out here. He had a nice enough disposition, and seemed unperturbed by Gabriel's stature. As he finished the last of the apple, he nudged Gabriel's side, seemingly in thanks, and then turned and wandered off across the field a few paces before stopping and bowing his head to graze.

Gabriel stood and watched for a moment. He was a handsome horse. His existence here made no sense, but Gabriel had given up on understanding humans some time ago.

Gabriel explored the rest of the property, walking from one edge, where scrub grass gave way to self-sufficient desert, to the hill on the other side, and then from the back of the barn to the highway. He found no other living creature, not even a rabbit; he, Apple and the girl were the only souls on the land.

His thoughts turned to sustenance. Apple had his field, and thus no lack of lunch, but the girl would need to eat. And, here on Earth, he realized, so would he.

_Man does not live on bread alone, but on every word of G-d._

The Bible verse rang in his head as he moved toward the house, humming with an echo of the power of G-d. Gabriel stopped and closed his eyes, his hand on the doorknob, savoring the warmth that filled his chest at the familiar verse.

Perhaps the previous owners had left a Bible behind. The thought made Gabriel nod in satisfaction, and he stepped inside the house, heading for the bookcase with the small pile of books at the bottom. There, under a copy of "The Book Thief" and behind a blue hardcover novel without a visible title, sat a small, paperback Bible. Gabriel smoothed his hand over it, breathing out on a verse: "_You made the heavens, even the highest heavens, and all their starry host, the earth and all that is on it, the seas and all that is in them. You give life to everything, and the multitudes of heaven worship you."_

The Bible was cheap and frail, torn and stained, but it was beautiful. Gabriel picked it up in both hands and carried it with him as he returned to the room where the girl lay sleeping. He could find truth in its words, even now.

The girl had not moved. Gabriel touched her heart with his right hand again, more out of habit than anything else, and then sat down on the floor across from the mattress. The window was behind him, and the morning light poured through it, illuminating the tiny type. The pages were thin and frail, and reminded him more than a little of the girl's bones between his fingers. Gabriel opened the Bible to the beginning, Genesis 1:1, and ran his hand down the page. The calluses of his fingers caught on the fibers, making the page rustle.

_In the beginning, G-d created the heaven and the earth._

Gabriel read all that day and all that night, stopping only to bring Apple another apple and fetch one for himself. They were withered and a little dry, but whole and healthy. He also checked to see if there was any food, for when the girl woke up. The kitchen cupboards were bare, but in the basement sat three shelves of canned food—emergency rations, presumably. They would do nicely. Gabriel brought up two different cans of beans and a solid loaf of bread he had found in the freezer and left them on the counter, then returned to the Bible.

He read the entirety of the first testament, and then, as the moon drifted down towards the horizon and the silver light slanted blue through the window, he went back and read over Psalms a second time. The words were beautiful in his mind, flowing and powerful, as Inspired as any celestial Voice. Gabriel found himself mouthing the words as he read, savoring their fall from his lips.

_By the word of the Lord were the heavens made, their starry host by the breath of his mouth._

_I will praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made._

_All His laws are before me; I have not turned away from his decrees._

__He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart._  
><em>


	3. Dignity

There's that, then. I'm not as content with this chapter as I am with the previous two, but it'll do. If I don't put it up now, I'll fiddle with it for weeks, and that wouldn't do.

My chapter length is increasing.

Thank you so much to all the lovely readers who have reviewed, watched, and favorited. Your enjoyment makes me incredibly happy.

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><p>As the sun rose on the second day, its light slanting through the window and creeping across the carpeted floor, the girl moved.<p>

Gabriel, who had been completely absorbed into the book in his hands, looked up immediately. A breathless silence passed, and then the girl moved again, with a little moan.

Gabriel put the Bible away and stood, his shadow swallowing the light from the window.

Her eyes opened, slowly, and she blinked several times, staring around her in confusion. Gabriel waited, as the confusion on her face was slowly replaced by comprehension as she looked at the walls, down at herself, and then up at Gabriel. She blinked, once, and then fear flashed across her face an instant before she screamed.

Gabriel winced. He did not enjoy screams. The girl threw her arms up in front of her face, or tried to—finding her left arm in a sling, she was denied that path of defense, so instead she scrambled up into a sitting position and shoved herself back against the wall.

Gabriel was across the room and beside the bed in three strides, catching her hands with his. "Stop," he commanded, over the shrill sound of her shriek. "You are hurt." The girl wrenched her hands free of her grasp and struck out, slapping Gabriel across the face.

Gabriel paused, out of surprise, not pain. No human had ever slapped him before. The girl hit him again, and again, smacking him across his face and punching his chest with her one good arm, until Gabriel caught her by her upper arms in an effort to keep her from causing herself further harm.

"Don't touch me!" she shrieked, fighting against his hold on her. "Don't fucking touch me, you monster! Stay away from me!"

"Stop fighting," Gabriel repeated.

"Get off me!" The girl twisted from side to side, tangling herself into the sheet in her efforts to get free. "Get the fuck off me!" Gabriel stayed where he was, leaned over the bed, and waited out the obscenities.

When the girl finally ran out of breath and sat there on the bed, gasping and glaring up at him through her matted hair, he spoke.

"Will you be calm?"

She worked her mouth for a moment, and then spat in his face.

Gabriel lifted one huge hand to his cheek and wiped the glob of saliva away.

"I see," he rumbled, and let go of her. The girl stared up at him, a little bit of surprise and hope behind the fury. "If that is how you wish to behave, then so be it. I will leave you alone."

With that, he turned, picked up the Bible from where it lay on the carpet, and left the bedroom.

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><p>Audrey stared at the door long after he closed it, gasping. Her heart was racing. A minute later, she realized her throat hurt from all the screaming. A few minutes after that, she realized the rest of her hurt, too.<p>

"Ah." Audrey gasped in pain and brought her left arm to her chest. It hurt so much; something had to be broken. She wrestled it out of the sling and stared at the clumsy splint. So her wrist was broken. No wonder it hurt, the way she been hitting that archangel.

Archangel. A fresh wave of fear swept over her, and Audrey had to close her eyes to fight down the urge to scream. He was gone. He said he was leaving.

He'd left, she realized, and opened her eyes. He'd left. After all that fighting and running, after chasing them down in a police cruiser, after fucking ripping off the roof of the thing and slamming through the windshield, after chasing her down and carrying her away to—to what? Eat her?—he'd just left. Just like that.

Audrey stared down at her body. She was tangled in a sheet, sitting on a bare mattress, in a room she didn't know, in a house she didn't know. Fuck, she didn't even know what state she was in. She could be in Heaven, for all the clues she had. Audrey shivered and crossed her good arm over her body. She was cold. Where were her clothes? … Her clothes were gone. That fucking pervert angel, she'd kill him. Audrey tried to kick free of the sheet, ready to make good on that threat, and then paused.

That wasn't right.

"Bra?" she wondered aloud, staring down at her white-and-black-striped bra (Hot Topic, just like her mother hated). She tugged the sheet away from her waist and looked down—her underwear was still there, too, and there was another splint on her leg.

"Well fuck," she muttered aloud, and worked herself free of the sheet with her one good arm and one good leg.

So… what? She was sitting on a bare mattress in a room she didn't know, in a house she didn't know, in the middle of who-knew-where, and this archangel had abducted her from the side of the road, taken her clothes, splinted her wrist and leg—and her ribs, she realized, as she moved—and put her on this sorry excuse for a mattress and left her to sleep.

Asshole.

Audrey didn't know what to think. He'd fucking tried to kill them all, last time she was awake, and nearly damn done it, too, and now he was... what, a nurse?

"Fuck," she spat, and decided not to think about it until she'd gone to the bathroom.

First, though, she needed clothes. She had no idea where her old clothes were, or if they were even any good, but there was the sheet. Audrey scooted to the edge of the bed as carefully as she could, and then turned and spread the sheet out so she could fold it in half. She scooted to the wall and stood up, bracing herself with her good arm, and then balanced on her good foot as she reached over and picked up the sheet, trying not to unfold it in the process. Her original idea was to wrap it around her like a towel, but that wasn't going to fucking work, so she ended up just throwing the thing around her shoulders, pinching it closed in her bad hand, and hop-scooting, bracing herself against the wall, over to the door.

It wasn't until after she'd opened the door and hopped halfway through it that she noticed the huge jacket lying on the floor beside the bed.

"Fuck it," Audrey groaned, and ignored it.

Lucky for her, the bathroom was right next door. Audrey dropped the sheet and hopped over to the toilet with a grateful sigh—apparently being thrown from a cop car and left unconscious for G-d knows how long made a person need to pee.

After she washed her hands, Audrey bent down to grab the sheet she'd dropped, and noticed the bathtub. Her first reaction was "Ew gross," followed by a very dubious "…What?"

Hopping closer, Audrey peered into the tub. The water was murky and brownish-red, so it took her a moment to recognize the shapes in it as pieces of armor, not some monster ready to leap out and devour her, or some dead body. It really wouldn't surprise her, at this point, if the archangel kept dead bodies in bathtubs. She'd given up on him entirely.

So the archangel'd been hurt, too. A lot, judging by the color of the water.

Served him right.

It took Audrey half an hour to hop her way through the entire house, including the several times when she stopped and sat on the nearest available bum-height surface. Hopping was exhausting, and Audrey developed a new measure of respect for kangaroos.

She found a box of old, abandoned, and incredibly redneck clothing in one of the other rooms, with stuff like jeans that would never fit her in a million years and gigantic jean jackets with holes burnt in them, and shirts that smelled like washed-out cigarette smoke. Most of it was just gross, but there was a red, plaid, flannel shirt that was dress-sized on her, and, in the bottom of the box, a pair of silk boxers still in their original packaging. Audrey laughed as she pulled it out—someone didn't appreciate the finer things in life. Audrey'd never had penis envy, but she bet silk boxers felt pretty nice on one. Too nice, for someone used to only old ratty cotton and maybe, on special days, new, football-team-printed cotton.

She bet she made quite a sight, hopping around, leaning against walls, in an old ratty lumberjack flannel and a pair of black silk boxers rolled up a billion times so they'd stay on her hips. Audrey couldn't help but laugh at herself, as she hop-leaned down the hall. Three days ago, she'd been whining about leaving her local Hot Topic, where all the employees knew her. Now, she was content with—well, not content, but dealing with—someone else's old shirt and men's boxers. Boxers were only fun to wear if you dated the guy who owned them, and only then if he had the decency to wash them regularly, and here she had a pair of her own.

Audrey hopped over to the counter and leaned on it to catch her breath. Down the way, on the other side of the sink, sat two cans of something—beans?—and what looked like a loaf of bread that'd just come out of the Ice Age. Audrey made a face.

"Hope that's not for me," she muttered, even though she knew, really, that it was.

The kitchen and living room were bare—whoever'd lived here last had taken all their shit with them. Well, not all their shit, she amended internally when she caught sight of the bookcase. Most of their shit. Audrey hoped they'd left a broom or a curtain rod or a cane or something behind—something she could use as a crutch—but no matter how she searched, nothing turned up.

"Fine," Audrey snapped aloud, glaring up at the ceiling beside the door. "I'll just have killer muscles in my good leg, and my other one'll shrivel up and die. Will that make you happy?" She paused. "Fuck, probably would. Bastard, you lied to us, you know that?" Audrey'd gone to church as a child, and even though she'd gotten the hell out of there as soon as they started pouring that youth group shit down her throat—_be chaste, save yourself, treat yourself and others with respect, obey your parents , _yeah right—she still remembered being a little kid in Sunday school with a little smile. They'd made signs out of macaroni and glitter glue, pictures of crosses and smiling (Jesus) faces and 'I love G-d's, and she'd fingerpainted as she listened to the Sunday school teacher talk about how G-d and Jesus would always love them, each and every one, no matter what they did. They were all special and unique and beautiful, and G-d loved them.

"Fuck," Audrey spat. The memories pissed her off. She threw open the door with another hissed invective and hopped out into the sunshine.

There was a field. Audrey stopped, surprised. There was a barn, and a field, and in the middle of that field, a… horse?

Audrey's face brightened a little. A _horse._ She pushed off the house, testing her balance for a minute, and then began hopping the thirty or so feet to the garden gate. A pause, to catch her breath, and then she hopped, pinwheeling her arms the whole way to keep her balance, over to the fence surrounding the field.

"Fucking exhausting," Audrey panted, clinging to the fence and leaning her good side against it as she tried desperately to catch her breath. "Fuckin' kangaroos."

The horse was some ways out into the field. Audrey desperately wanted to go pet the pony, but it wasn't worth hopping all the way out there and risking the horse trotting off as soon as she got near. She'd need something to support her—a cane, or something—if she wanted to actually say hello.

So, for now, Audrey leaned on the fence and watched.

The horse was just grazing, out in the middle of the field, chilling and eating its breakfast. It looked skinny and dirty, but that didn't really surprise Audrey—the property looked like it'd been vacant for a while.

"As soon as I'm better," she sighed, "I'll give you a brushing."

Audrey'd never owned horses, and never spent any real amount of time with them, but, like every five-year-old girl, she'd desperately wanted a pony when she was little, and she still thought they were really pretty. She also had no idea how to brush—or whatever the word was… groom?—a horse, but it couldn't be too hard: brush the way the hair grows and don't poke them in any sensitive places, just like anyone else.

Audrey leaned her weight on the top bar of the fence and gazed, content to watch the horse munch his way across the field forever.

"You should not be walking."

Audrey whirled, lost her balance, and toppled over. Gabriel reached out, caught her by her good hand before she hit the ground, and helped her stand. Audrey snatched her hand away as soon as she was steady on her foot.

"Don't touch me," she snarled. Gabriel frowned, and the weight of that frown made Audrey shrink a little inside her skin. She fought down the urge to apologize.

"You should not be walking," he repeated.

Audrey stuck out her chin defiantly. "I'm not walking," she snapped. "I'm hopping."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "You should not be hopping," he amended. "The damage to your body is too extensive."

"What do you care?" Audrey retorted. "You were trying to kill me a day ago."

"No," Gabriel rumbled. "You have been unconscious for over 24 hours."

"Sor_ry_." Audrey rolled her eyes as big as she could. "You were trying to kill me _two_ days ago. The fuck do you care about my walking?"

"You are my obligation."

"I'm your obligation?" Audrey repeated, staring at him. "Fuck you, angel. I'm not some pet project!"

"Responsibility, then," Gabriel amended, curtly. "I am to see you healed."

"According to who? G-d?" She tightened her grip on the fence, glowering, as her anger mounted. "I'm pretty sure we've established that He doesn't give a fuck!" Gabriel's frown reappeared, but Audrey didn't care. "Do you have any idea how much pain I'm in? How much this hurts? Who gave you the fucking right to choose whether I live or die? You're not G-d!"

"I know more of Him than you do!" Gabriel thundered.

"I don't fucking care!" Audrey shrieked, then stopped, panting. There was a moment of silence, wherein she glared up at the archangel and he frowned down at her. Then, very quietly, and with as much venom as she could muster, Audrey hissed, "I wish you had left me to die."

Gabriel's frown deepened. "Your body wished to live," he chastised. "I only listened."

"My body doesn't know _shit_."

"So be it," Gabriel snapped, and Audrey felt a flash of triumph at getting a reaction out of him. "If you wish to die, do so. _After_ I have seen you healed completely, and released you."

"Released me?" Audrey repeated, incredulous. "I'm not your fucking prisoner."

"No, you are my responsibility."

"According to _who?"_

"That is none of your concern." Gabriel drew himself up to his full height and crossed his arms. "Now return to your bed before you injure yourself further."

Audrey opened her mouth to protest, and Gabriel raised an eyebrow.

"You know what?" she decided. "_Fuck_ you. I will." Audrey was tired, anyway. She turned around and hopped back towards the house with as much dignity as she could muster. Halfway to the garden gate, she fell over, barely catching herself with her good arm. It hurt like a bitch. Audrey shoved herself to her feet and hopped the rest of the way, her cheeks burning, keeping her balance through sheer force of will. She refused to look back.

Audrey didn't stop until she'd reached the bedroom and sat herself down on the bed. She paused for a moment, catching her breath, and then let out a scream of frustration, pounding her fist against the mattress.

"Fuck!" she shrieked. "Fuck fuck shit damn fuck! _Fuck!"_

The screaming helped a little. Audrey kept screaming until her throat was raw and sore, then flopped over on the bed, curled up into a ball, and pretended she wasn't crying.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking _fair._ Why was she alive? Why had Gabriel saved her? Why did he care? Why wouldn't he just let her die? Why did she hurt so much? Why were her parents dead? Why had this happened? Why? _Why?_

Audrey buried her face in the rough, quilted satin of the mattress and cried herself to sleep.

* * *

><p>She woke up once, in the late evening. There was a plate of heated refried beans and two slices of over-toasted bread sitting beside her bed. Normally, Audrey wouldn't have touched something so bland, but her appetite won out over her brain. She devoured the food in moments—<em>probably fattening me up for the slaughter,<em> she thought bitterly—and fell back asleep almost immediately.

She didn't dream.

* * *

><p>Gabriel would never understand humans. The girl had been furious at him, had told him she wanted to die, but her behavior didn't match her words. People who truly wanted to die just gave up. She was fighting harder than he'd ever seen any human fight; she was angry, resentful, and relied too much on invectives, but she was fighting.<p>

"You are peaceful," he told Apple, stroking the gelding's neck. Apple sighed through his mouthful of grass, as if in agreement.

From the house came the echo of a scream of frustration. Apple laid his ears back; Gabriel just sighed and waited for it to fade away.

With the girlchild in the mood she was in, Gabriel lost all desire to return to the house. Instead, he went back to the barn and retrieved the tack box from the tack room. He spent the next two hours grooming Apple inch by inch, currying him head to hoof, then again, going over him with a soft brush, combing out the tangles in his mane and tail, brushing him again, and then wiping him down to remove the last of the dust. Apple underwent the pampering with more than his fair share of delight, nudging his head into Gabriel's abdomen whenever Gabriel approached that end of him. After the first two affectionate headbutts, Gabriel avoided the horse's head.

When the archangel had finally finished, Apple was gleaming softly in the midday winter sun. Gabriel slid his hand across Apple's ribs, satisfied with the smooth of the horse's hide under his hand.

_Better,_ he decided. Apple needed to gain a lot of weight, but that would take time. He was clean and shining, and that was enough.

Gabriel bent down to pick up the tack box. Apple ducked his head, intending to get in another headbutt, and Gabriel stopped him with a firm hand on his nose. Apple sighed in disappointment and settled for lipping at Gabriel's palm, earning a nod of approval.

Gabriel had time to fill, and so he found random assignments to complete around the property. He repaired the gate, cleaned out Apple's stall, located the hay stock, found and repaired a break in the fence, and then retrieved the Bible from the house and read, leaning against the fence as Apple grazed, for the remainder of the day.

When the sun dipped into the horizon and stained the sky crimson and gold, Gabriel put the Bible aside and took Apple back to his stall, then went inside the house.

The girl was curled up, asleep, on the mattress. The sheet was nowhere to be found. Gabriel picked up the jacket from where it lay on the floor and placed it over her. She was not adequately insulated to pass the night without it.

He prepared a meal for the girl—beans and bread, toasted on the stove—and placed it beside the mattress in a plate found in the back of a box. She would need to eat when she awoke.

He went out to the barn to ensure that Apple was secure for the night. When he returned, the plate was empty. Gabriel nodded in approval. She would heal better if she was fed.

He settled himself below the window so the moonlight washed over his shoulder, illuminating the pages of the Scripture, and began to read.


	4. Scars

I warned you it would be erratic. Work and school are devouring my energy, so I've gone from churning out two chapters in a day to about one a week. I have a backlog, so you can expect another update sometime next week.

I adore you for your patience. Thank you all.

* * *

><p>The girl awoke the next morning, in a slow stirring of muscle and breath. Gabriel looked up from the book of Romans, and waited.<p>

She blinked twice, then focused on him. Gabriel expected a scream, or a similar display of hysteria. Instead, a frown crossed her face and she sat up, bringing the coat close to her chest. There was silence, during which she frowned at him, and he watched her frown at him, and then she spoke.

"Why?" she asked. At the rise of Gabriel's eyebrow, she clarified: "Why did you save me?"

"Because you wished to be saved."

"Yeah, well, I wished to be saved when you came crashing through the cop car, but that didn't do any good."

"Circumstances have changed."

"Yeah?" Audrey glared at him. "How?'

"The child is alive. The apocalypse has passed."

"So you're suddenly all warm and fuzzy." The girl's voice went flat.

"No." Gabriel was not amused.

"What, then?"

"The child is alive, so my orders have expired."

"Right, your _orders_. And now you have new orders to heal me?"

"Not orders," Gabriel corrected.

"What?"

"An obligation."

"You're not making any sense." The girl was running out of patience. Gabriel suppressed the urge to sigh.

"You were dying. The harm to your body was partially due to my actions—"

"_Partially_?" The girl interrupted, her voice cracking. Gabriel held up a hand, forestalling her argument.

"I happened to be present in order to witness your desire to live. I took it upon myself to respond appropriately."

The girl was silent for a moment, frowning in concentration.

"You didn't have to kill me anymore, and it's your fault I was almost dead, so you decided to keep me alive so you didn't feel guilty." She laughed humorlessly. "Hell of a way to apologize."

Gabriel stood. "I do not feel guilt," he rumbled. "I did what I was ordered to do."

"Then why'd you save me?" the girl demanded.

"Because it was what I needed to do."

"Why?" she insisted. Gabriel's frown deepened.  
>"Why does it matter to you?"<p>

"Because I think you're lying. I want to know the truth."

"Angels cannot lie. We are not capable of it. I may refuse to reveal information, but I cannot lie."

The girl scowled at him. "Fine," she said. "Then tell me the truth. Why did you save me?"

"I told you—"

"Tell me again. The _whole_ truth." There was more than anger behind her demand. Something like need—desperation—colored her voice. Gabriel sighed, this time aloud.

"I saved you because I could not let you die. You deserved to live."

He had expected relief, or contentment, or agreement from the girl. Instead, fury flashed across her face.

"Deserved to-?" she started, her voice rising, and then stopped and gritted her teeth. She hissed in a breath, clearly forcing herself to calm down, and earning Gabriel's approval in the process.

"Leave," she hissed. "_Please_."

Gabriel granted her request.

* * *

><p>Audrey flopped down on the mattress and turned her back to the door as the angel closed it behind him. It wasn't fair. He'd tried to kill them all, and now he'd decided she deserved to live? It didn't make any sense. She buried her face in the jacket—which smelled of wood and spearmint gum—and resisted the urge to scream.<p>

And she'd woken up set on being civil, too. She hated him—oh, how she hated him—but she wasn't crazy. He'd healed her, and she could at least not scream at him for that, even if there was _nothing_ in this hellhole to look forward to. The thought made Audrey's fury surge afresh, and she gave in to the urge to scream, muffling it in the down of the jacket.

So _fucking_ _unfair._

After she'd screamed out most of her rage, Audrey lay, breathing into the jacket, for a few minutes, then sat up. She hated everything right now, but she wasn't about to go jump off a bridge, so she'd better find something to make herself feel better.

Her first thought was a bath.

Audrey looked down at herself, at the casts and bandages, and decided, in a sudden rush of pigheaded stubbornness, to move the fuck on. She then got up, bracing herself against the wall, hopped carefully over to the door, and then down the hall, in search of the angel.

He was in the kitchen. Audrey paused, leaning against the corner, a little amused despite herself; there was something very absurd about the huge, black-winged angel in a little, white, linoleum ranch kitchen. He looked like a SEAL in a playroom.

She coughed uncertainly, and he turned.

"You should not be up," he said, with the immediacy of an automatic response. Audrey rolled her eyes.

"Tell me something I don't know," she retorted, and then, with as little venom as she could manage, said, "I want to take a bath. What do I do about my…?" she half-gestured with her splinted arm, indicating her injuries. Gabriel looked her over, head to toe, once, considering.

"The tape will soak off," he said, referring to her ribs. "If you wish to clean yourself completely, you may remove your splints _if_ you do so underwater and _if_ you do not move the injured appendages at all. I will need to retape and resplint your broken bones, and it will hurt considerably. Knowing that, it's your choice."

Audrey considered it. Her stomach dropped at the thought of more pain than she was already in, but she _desperately_ needed to be clean, _all_ the way clean.

"Okay," she decided. Gabriel nodded once, and put down the can he held.

He opened the bathroom door for her and placed a towel and a torn scrap of washcloth beside the tub. "There is soap," he told her, indicating the white bar on the side of the tub. Audrey nodded mutely, and he left the bathroom.

She turned on the tab, sat gingerly on the cold edge of the tub, and eased herself out of her clothes.

She hadn't noticed the stitches, not really, the last time she dressed. Audrey filled the sink with cold water and left her underthings to soak, then stood in front of the mirror as the tub filled and stared at her body. She traced her fingers over the bristly black lines of stitches, wincing when her torn fingernails caught at the silk thread and tugged at her skin. "Scars," she whispered, her forehead wrinkling. She'd have so many scars.

Audrey shook her head and turned to the tub, easing herself into the hot water as carefully as she could. It stung, but it was a good sting, and distracted her from the pain of seeing the bruises and black lines that covered her body. The tub filled until the water reached her breasts, and then she turned off the tap with a poke of her good foot.

Audrey slid down until the water covered her ears, closed her eyes, and listened to the sound of her heart, thudding clear and strong through the water.

The blood and dirt from her hair dyed the water rust-red. Audrey rinsed out her hair as best she could, then rubbed the bar of soap in it until her hair couldn't hold any more suds, and scrubbed at her head with her good hand. She pulled the plug and turned on the tap at the same time, cycling clean, hot water through the tub as she rinsed her hair, then washed herself slowly, clumsily, one-handed from head to toe, only removing the casts after every other inch of her was red and raw from scrubbing. Then she sat and soaked, as hot clean water washed away everything but her skin itself. She sat as the water cooled, then pulled the plug and sat as the water drained, staring numbly at the black and green bruise surrounding the break in her leg.

She knew she ought to stay in the tub, ought to dress and dry somehow without moving her leg and arm, and she knew it would hurt like a bitch to get out, but Audrey was nothing if not idiotically headstrong. She didn't want to dress while sitting in the damp tub, and she sure as hell didn't want the angel to see her naked. There was only one course of action.

Gingerly, as carefully as she could, Audrey pulled herself up to sit on the edge of the tub, lifted her legs over one by one, and slid down to sit on the floor. She hissed out on the gasp of pain as her bad leg slid across the tile. She was stupid, she really was. Audrey dried herself off, wrapped her mostly-clean underthings in the towel, and slid into the boxers and shirt, all while sitting on the floor, then called out, "Gabriel?"

After a moment, she could hear his footsteps coming down the hall. He stopped outside the door and knocked once, just to make sure, then entered.

"I told you not to move," he chastised. Audrey rolled her eyes.

"I don't listen to you."

"This is true," Gabriel sighed, and knelt beside her. He pulled the first aid kit from beneath the sink, removing the rolls of gauze, and placed the splints Audrey had dropped on either side of her leg.

"This will hurt," he warned, and began to wrap the gauze.

It did hurt. It didn't hurt as much as Audrey feared it would, but the slightest jostle of her leg made her hiss in pain. Gabriel was careful, though—she could see that much—and her knowledge of the caution in his hands helped as much as the actual care. He bound her leg, then moved to her arm, placing her bad hand in the center of his palm as he wrapped her wrist. Audrey stared at their hands, her tiny white fingers dwarfed by his huge, sun-browned ones. She could feel the rough calluses under her palm, scratching lightly against her skin as he held her hand still.

"Alright," he said, when her wrist was immobilized. "Please lift your shirt."

Audrey's face flamed. She hadn't thought about that, hadn't thought about him seeing her shirtless, or mostly shirtless. Yeah, he'd already seen her that way if he'd taped her ribs once, but something about the idea was suddenly, viciously embarrassing, and she pulled away.

Gabriel caught her good hand before she could go too far, reclaiming her attention. "You will not heal if you do not let me help you," he said, his voice low and even, and Audrey knew, somehow, that he knew what she was thinking. "Your broken ribs are below your bust; you can maintain your modesty."

Audrey flushed again. It was weird, hearing him talking about tits like that. _Bust._ Who used that word, anyway? But he had a point.

Gabriel stood and offered her his hand. "This will be easier if you sit on the counter."

Audrey allowed him to help her up, and inched her way up onto the counter with a careful shimmy of her butt. Gabriel pulled the medical tape from the kit as Audrey rolled up her shirt to just below her breast, holding it up with her good hand and looking away. Gabriel tore long strips of the tape, sticking their edges to the counter so they were close at hand, and then began to lay them, one by one, along her fractured ribs.

Gabriel's hands were sure and steady as he placed the tape, his fingers brushing her side with only the most clinical of touches. He was utterly calm. Some part of Audrey had expected something else—some too-long touch, some nudge against her shirt, things others boys had done when they'd seen this much skin, and they always wanted to see more—but everything Gabriel did was innocent. Slowly, her embarrassment faded. Her gaze wandered downward, from the curve of his folded wings to the line of his shoulders to the touch of his fingers, gentle on her skin. The flesh under his hands was green, yellow, and black. Audrey looked from the bruised skin to the black lines across her stomach and thigh, and then back. Her skin didn't look like it belonged to her. It didn't even look human.

Audrey's left hand twitched, brushing across the stitches on her thigh. _It'll scar,_ Audrey realized, again, and closed her eyes against the sudden rush of tears.

Gabriel pressed another strip of tape along her ribs.

Audrey could feel the shift of her broken bones with every breath she took. Her wrist throbbed with her heart. Her leg pulsed in time, heavy and sick with gravity-weighted blood. Every breath she took shifted her ribs, and even though Gabriel's tape helped, hugely, Audrey felt as if she was going to break into pieces. She was black and blue and broken.

Audrey's breath hitched, and the stab of pain shattered her tenuous hold on her tears.

She could feel when Gabriel stopped, his hands stilling on her ribs. A moment passed, and then a cloth was pressed into Audrey's hand.

"Why are you crying?" he asked—not accusatory, not incredulous, just gentle and questioning.

"It's not fair." Audrey's breath hitched, and she choked on the pain.

"No," Gabriel agreed, "It is not fair. But that's not why you're crying."

He was right. Of course he was right. Audrey fought down another hitch, trying desperately to control her breathing.

"I hurt so much."

Gabriel was quiet, and Audrey ducked her head against the disdain she was sure he felt, sniffling as the tears ran down her face.

Gabriel moved, his wings rustling, and took back the cloth he had given her. He pressed it to her chin, catching the tears, and lifting her head. "You are afraid," he noted, as he touched the cloth to her cheeks.

Audrey opened her eyes, slowly. She was afraid of seeing mockery, or disappointment, or disgust, but all she saw was his face, soft and unrevealing. He was waiting for something, and Audrey wondered what it was—and then all her thoughts came out in a rush, before she even knew what she was saying.

"I don't want to scar," she whispered, the words blurring into each other. "It's stupid and vain, I know, but this…" she gestured helplessly across her body. "It'll scar, and it'll never, ever go away."

Gabriel lowered his hand. Audrey looked up at him, afraid again of what she'd see, but he was just looking at her, his eyes moving across her face as if searching for something.

"It will never go away," he agreed finally, and Audrey closed her eyes in pain. "But," Gabriel continued, "Scars are not a thing to be feared. They are proof of a life worthy of remembrance. If you have scars, you have fought battles, and survived."

"What if I lost?" Audrey whispered. Gabriel looked down as he put the cloth aside.

"You did not lose," he said quietly. "This was not a matter of winning or losing."

"What was it, then?"

Gabriel said nothing for so long Audrey feared he wouldn't answer. Then, eventually, and very quietly, he said, "I don't know."

"Oh," Audrey whispered.

There wasn't anything else to say. Audrey's tears had stopped. She rolled up the hem of her shirt, and Gabriel finished taping her ribs. He surveyed his handiwork for a moment after he was done, and then nodded. "You will heal."

"Oh, good," Audrey muttered, her sarcasm back in full force, and slipped off the counter. Belatedly, she added, "Thank you."

"You are welcome." Gabriel opened the door for her. Audrey didn't move, and after a moment he looked back at her, a question on his face.

"What should I call you?" Audrey asked. She knew what Michael had called him, but she didn't know if that was too informal, or if it was a title, or what.

Gabriel paused, seeming to think about it for a moment, and then said, "Gabriel."

"Okay," Audrey said, with a crooked smile. Duh.

"And you?" Gabriel asked. Audrey blinked at him.

"You don't know my name?"

"I never had an opportunity to learn it," Gabriel pointed out, and at the expression on Audrey's face, elaborated. "Names are not worth as much as you humans seem to believe. What matters is the substance of a soul, not the label."

"… Oh." Audrey blinked. She'd never thought about it that way. "Audrey. My name is Audrey."

Gabriel nodded. "It is nice to meet you, Audrey," he said, a curve to his voice revealing how sad the formality was. Audrey laughed humorlessly and shook her head.

"Yeah," she sighed. "It's nice to meet you, too."


	5. The Princess and the Bard

I can't thank you guys enough for your lovely reviews; they make me so incredibly happy. I didn't expect this story to suck me in as it has, but it did. I'm much obliged to you guys sticking with me.

xoxo

* * *

><p>Audrey had run out of the anger and adrenaline that had kept her on her feet the day before. Now, she was just weary—but she wasn't sleepy, and she had no desire to be shoved away on that mattress in the back bedroom. Instead, she went and got the box of old clothes and sheet from where she'd left them—with Gabriel's help, since she couldn't bend over and she certainly couldn't carry anything—and brought it into the front room, where she dumped the box and shoved the clothes together into a nest beside the bookcase, and then threw the sheet over it to hold it all together.<p>

"Welcome to the apocalypse," she muttered as she shifted through the books on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. "The finest in interior design."

Audrey read, but she read teen novels and bodice busters, things with cheap thrills and sex on every other page, and she loved it. Her dad had tried to introduce her to what he called "real" novels, books he claimed had substance and reason, but she'd never read the books he bought her. They just sat, unused, on her bookshelf. She hoped she'd find something worth reading here, but doubted it.

Audrey paused as a familiar book title caught her eye. She pulled the small novel from the shelf, turning it over in her hands.

_The Princess Bride_. The book was worn and torn, dogeared and stained, and soft in Audrey's hands. The sight of it brought a memory of a shiny new cover, gold and blue and crisp. Her father had given her a copy of this. Audrey opened it to the first page, and read the first line:

_The year that Buttercup was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a French scullery maid named Annette._

Audrey slid back until her bum found her makeshift beanbag chair without looking up from the page.

* * *

><p>Gabriel watched the girl—Audrey—as she made her odd nest of clothing and then found a novel. He had already catalogued the books left behind, and knew they comprised a motley collection, including philosophy, a child's picture book about caterpillars, nonfiction regarding some sort of operating system technology, and, ultimately, a very large, dusty, volume of the Complete Works of William Shakespeare.<p>

Gabriel also knew he would spend a large amount of time reading, as well. He intended to introduce Audrey to every subject on that shelf—except, perhaps, the manual—as he doubted she had spent much time with the classics of her race, but for now, she seemed content with the little book in her hands.

Deeming her safe for the time being, Gabriel left the house. Once outside, he spread his wings, shaking them out with a shiver of metal and down, and then pushed off.

He needed to survey. After Michael had defeated him, Gabriel had been too absorbed in his own confusion to observe his surroundings with any degree of retention. Now, though, he felt the need, deep-seated in his creation and his training, to be aware.

Gabriel flew straight up for a couple hundred feet then stopped, looking out over the desert.

The highway struck a narrow grey line straight through the center of the desert; nothing moved along its length. A few dark brown spots dotted the border of the road, two far off in the distance, one a couple miles from their shelter. Cars surrounded the nearer one, their paint glinting like beetles amidst the swarms of flies that Gabriel could see, even at this distance.

The humans possessed by the angels had died there, likely right after Michael had died and Gabriel had left in pursuit of the child. It didn't surprise Gabriel—no human body could recover from the force of a heavenly host. Gabriel knew this, had known it for a long time, and knew it when he witnessed the hordes of the possessed.

Still, the sight of the flies swarming about the bodies made something inside Gabriel pause.

He would need to keep Audrey away from the diner.

Gabriel turned and struck out in the other direction, flying north. There were mountains in the distance and, Gabriel knew, a small town on the other side. The child and its guardians were there, in the small settlement untouched by the apocalypse. It was likely the only place in the world like it. The apocalypse would have swept across the planet, unlinking the souls of millions of humans. There would have been hundreds of thousands more dead if the child hadn't survived. Gabriel wondered about the urban centers: New York; Beijing; Paris; Tokyo. Were the survivors tending to their dead, burying the bodies and cleaning up after the disaster, or were they hiding in their houses? Or had they succumbed to the madness that tended to follow human crises and disintegrated, looting stores and rioting over boxes of cereal?

Gabriel had seen it happen. He shook his head. He knew G-d saw this outcome, too and that confused him. Why would G-d have done this? Why would he have left his children to fall to pieces? What was it that Gabriel didn't understand? There was something about the dead, and something about those that still lived, something that he wasn't seeing. There was a pattern, a rhyme and reason, and he couldn't quite catch it.

Gabriel growled in frustration.

What was it that Michael and G-d so loved about these humans? Having spent time near Audrey, he saw what set them apart—their unpredictability, their fragility, their irrationality—but those were not things to love. Humans cried, humans complained, humans always failed to recognize their blessings—

Gabriel's train of thought derailed. Audrey's face arose, unbidden, in his mind, streaked with tears and etched with fear. It wasn't that she refused the gift of being alive. It was that she was afraid. Of what, Gabriel didn't know, but he had realized, suddenly, acutely, that Audrey was not ungrateful. She had thrown her fit, and she had risen the next day with more grace and patience than before. She was trying.

Gabriel shook his head. She was proving to be a surprise. She had scars all over her soul—he could see them, though she couldn't—and he hadn't expected her to try. He didn't know what he expected—pain, sullenness, cynicism—but it wasn't that.

He would have to give her more credit.

Gabriel banked, turning west. He needed to find more supplies.

* * *

><p>He returned to the house later that afternoon with a bag full of scavenged supplies. Audrey looked up from the book in her hands, surprise registering briefly on her face.<p>

"What's all that?" she asked, putting her book aside as if to get up.

"Don't stand," Gabriel reprimanded, setting the burlap bag—an empty feedbag, pilfered from a barn several miles to the east—down on the counter. Audrey slowly settled back down, though she craned her neck to see what he had brought.

It was mostly food, and several bottles of water—canned tuna, canned beans, canned corn, a bag of corn chips, a loaf of bread, the like—another first aid kit, and, at the bottom of the sack, three books, two blankets and another bag.

"You read?" Audrey asked.

"Yes, frequently." Gabriel set the books aside. One was a collection of short stories, one was a novel about the human legend King Arthur, which had grabbed Gabriel's attention with its title, and one was a very fat paperback that, judging by the name, involved nobility of jewelry. The second bag he tossed towards Audrey, so it landed by her feet.

"I do not know your measurements," he said, as he folded the burlap bag and began to stack the cans. "But I believe those will fit."

"Hmm?" Audrey hummed in puzzlement as she opened the bag, the plastic crinkling, and made a small noise of excitement. "Clothes," she sighed happily, and then paused. "… Where did these come from?"

Gabriel didn't answer for long enough that Audrey repeated herself. "Gabriel?" she asked, her voice rising slightly.

"They did not need them," he rumbled, his shoulders shifting.

"_Who_ didn't need them?" Audrey demanded. "Did you steal me clothes from someone's house? Why didn't they need them?"

"There was an apocalypse, Audrey," Gabriel said quietly. Audrey stared at him as comprehension dawned, slowly.

"Oh G-d," she said, quietly, and looked down at the bag. As Gabriel watched, she slowly upended the sack, then spread the clothes out across the floor. Gabriel had brought her clothes he deemed warm and functional—and more modest than the attire Audrey had arrived in. Jeans, long-sleeved shirts, a jacket, a pair of worn flannel pants—they were all items someone had once lived in. Audrey looked at the clothes with a strange expression, a mixture of sorrow and confusion, as she spread them out across the floor.

"Okay," she said quietly, after a long silence. "Okay." She folded the clothes and put them next to her makeshift cushion, then picked up her book and sat back.

Gabriel watched her for a moment, intrigued. She had handled that revelation with more grace than he had expected. After a moment, Audrey looked up and saw him looking at her. "What?"

"You seem to be absorbing the current situation well."

"They're all dead," Audrey replied, her voice low. "Nothing I can do about that, is there?"

"No," Gabriel said. "There isn't."

Audrey looked back at the pile of clothes folded in front of her, and said nothing.

Gabriel put the rest of the scavenged supplies away and went to go turn Apple out. He gave the horse a peppermint he'd taken from a small glass bowl in one of the houses, and Apple rested his head briefly on Gabriel's arm in thanks.

Gabriel reached up and scratched Apple under his forelock, and the gelding sighed in contentment. As long as he had food, shelter, and a kind hand, the horse was content. Gabriel rubbed behind his ears, eliciting another sigh. If only humans were so simple.

Instead, they were self-aware, and in that, infinitely complex. They wanted, coveted, thought, sinned, and were never content with their lot.

"You are content," he said to Apple. Apple huffed and dropped his head to continue grazing. He didn't seem to have an argument.

Gabriel was tired. He scratched Apple's neck along the base of his mane, smiling at the noises Apple made around his mouthfuls of grass. So simple. The winter sun was warm on Gabriel's back, the air cool on his skin. A wind picked up, rushing along the ground and rising to tug at Gabriel's tunic and pinion feathers, and he allowed himself a sigh—one long, low, quiet exhale.

_A great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks… but the Lord was not in the wind. … The Lord was not in the earthquake… The Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. _

_ "What are you doing here?"_

Gabriel turned and looked toward the north, to the source of the wind. It picked up briefly, whipping around his body and tugging at his feathers, and then quieted to a breeze that made the grass ripple.

"What am I doing here?" he repeated, quietly. Apple took a step away from him, following the fresh grass, and Gabriel turned to follow the gelding, automatically resuming the scratching.

_What are you doing here?_

* * *

><p>Audrey reached the fire swamp with the Rodents of Unusual Size, and decided she was hungry. Gabriel had gone outside a while ago and hadn't returned yet, and as much as she wanted to be self-sufficient, Audrey knew she couldn't get a can, much less open it and operate the stove, with only one arm.<p>

She levered herself to her feet, using the bookshelf as a support, and hopped her way to the front door. She opened it with some difficulty, and then stopped in the doorway.

Gabriel was standing in the field. The horse was grazing beside him, peaceful, and he was scratching along the base of its mane. There was a wind, and as it picked up, Gabriel turned and looked into it. His wings spread slightly, the wind tugging at his feathers, and Gabriel lifted his chin. Audrey's breath left her.

He was terrifying. He was huge and terrifying, powerful beyond measure, and she knew he could kill her with a sweep of his hand if he wanted to, but there, standing in the field, without armor or mace, scratching the mane of a old, abandoned gelding, the sun making his feathers shine blue-black—that. There were no words.

Audrey leaned against the doorjamb and watched, watched as the breeze settled, as the horse stepped away and Gabriel followed him with his hand without thinking. She could remember the feel of his hands on her ribs, gentle, clinical, with none of the affection she could see, even at this distance.

Fire bloomed suddenly inside her chest, burning at her throat, making her jaw clench. Audrey choked on the force of the emotion, abrupt, fierce and angry, and before it could strangle her, she straightened up and called out, "Gabriel!"

The archangel turned and looked at her. "Yes?" he asked.

"I'm hungry." Audrey shifted uncomfortably. "I'd do it myself, but I can't."

"Very well." Gabriel turned from the horse with a final pat and came inside. Audrey stepped out of the doorway to let him pass, stumbling a little as she did so, and Gabriel caught her by her forearm.

"Be mindful of your ribs," he said, and Audrey nodded mutely.

Gabriel made toast and beans again, rather to Audrey's disappointment, though he actually added salt and pepper this time. At Audrey's insistence, he also opened up a can of peaches from the basement, and left her to eat them with her fingers as he went to bring the horse an apple.

"You like that horse a lot, don't you?" Audrey asked when he returned. Gabriel nodded and picked up her plate from the floor.

"He has a pleasant temperament and is easily content."

"Unlike me," Audrey finished for him, bitterly.

"I did not say that," Gabriel replied.

"But you were thinking it." Audrey looked down at her book with a scowl.

Gabriel stopped washing the plate. "You are not a horse, Audrey," he told her. "You are a human girl. You and Apple are not comparable. Yes, he is easier to please, but he also could not survive five broken bones."

Audrey nodded grudgingly, placated. After a moment, Gabriel's use of the horse's name registered, and she looked up again.

"Apple?"

"It is his name." Gabriel frowned. "It's a cruel name; he's constantly teased by the hope of a treat when he is called."

"No, that makes perfect sense." At Gabriel's odd look, Audrey elaborated. "They named him Apple to train him. He comes when he's called, he does what he's told, they give him an apple. It's basic training."

"It's cruel. They should have had the patience to train him in a way that wouldn't entail teasing him."

"You're not one to talk about patience," Audrey replied sourly, her mind flashing back to the apocalypse. It took Gabriel a moment before he understood what she was talking about.

"It was not my patience. The Lord had more than enough patience for your kind."

"So what, if a horse takes too long to train, you put him down?" Audrey snapped.

Gabriel was silent.

Audrey looked down at the book in her lap, biting her lip. She'd meant what she said, she had, but Gabriel's silence was strange and uncomfortable.

Several minutes passed in silence, save for the sound of the water as Gabriel rinsed the plates. Audrey stared at her book without reading the words on the page, and the small kernel of guilt grew and grew until Audrey couldn't stand it.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "That wasn't nice."

"You need only apologize for your tone," Gabriel replied, setting the plates aside and walking over to her. Audrey craned her neck to look up at him as he continued to speak. "Your point was valid."

Audrey was too confused by his response to be irritated about his correction. "Oh," she said quietly, and looked back down at her book. Gabriel was silent for a moment, and then sat down beside her in a graceful and heavy fold of limbs and wings. Audrey stared at him in surprise.

Gabriel reached over to the bookcase and pulled the big, fat, dusty book off the bottom shelf, set it in his lap, and flipped it to the middle.

"I do read," he reminded Audrey, at the strange look on her face. Audrey said nothing, only watched him warily as Gabriel flicked through the passages with a forefinger, and then stopped. Audrey watched as he read, her gaze never wavering until Gabriel finally looked up.

"Yes?" he asked.

"How do you read that?" Audrey asked. "I don't understand it at all. Shakespeare's like… Latin, or something."

"Latin is not that difficult," Gabriel noted mildly.

"Bullshit."

"Mind your word choice," Gabriel reprimanded. Audrey scowled, and the archangel continued calmly, "William Shakespeare was one of the finest authors of your species. His command of and contribution to your language was exceptional. His subject matter was not always tasteful, or entirely original, but it was still exceptional. You should know him."

"I don't understand him," Audrey repeated. "It's like gibberish."

Gabriel shook his head in frustration, and turned the pages of the book in his lap.

"Listen to this," he said. Audrey obligingly put down her book. Gabriel paused for the barest of moments, then began to speak.

I_ serve the fairy queen,  
>To dew her orbs upon the green.<br>The cowslips tall her pensioners be:  
>In their gold coats spots you see;<br>Those be rubies, fairy favours,  
>In those freckles live their savours:<br>I must go seek some dewdrops here  
>And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.<br>Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone:  
>Our queen and all our elves come here anon.<em>

Audrey was silent for a moment after Gabriel finished reading. Gabriel turned back to the place he'd saved with his thumb and resumed his reading.

"It's pretty," she said, finally, slowly.

Gabriel nodded. "He is a master of language."

For a moment, Audrey understood what he meant. There was something about the words, something about the rhythm—in Gabriel's deep, rumbling voice, they had stuck. They hummed inside her head—_rubies, fairy favours... hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear —_bringing back memories of poppy patches and wild flowers, fields Audrey had picked from as a child, gardens where everything had seemed so much simpler. She'd ruled her own kingdom, then, a world of fairies and dragons, where her dog—an old, fat, patient Labrador named Molly—had acted as regent, where Queen Anne's Lace was a diamond chandelier, where pollen from daisies and sap from dandelions dyed her fingers yellow, where she came racing home with petals in her hair and sunburns on her nose. Her mother had laughed and combed her hair, had made her peanut butter sandwiches and given her picnics to take when she went racing back to her kingdom.

Audrey couldn't breathe.

She pushed the book away and shoved herself to her feet, grabbing on to the bookcase for a moment to steady herself, then stumbled toward the door. Behind her, Gabriel's wings rustled as he stood. "Audrey?" he asked.

"I'm… I just…" She had no words. Audrey forced open the door and stopped, gasping in lungfuls of air that didn't taste of abandoned house and books and clothes and food that belonged to other people, innocent people, dead people.

The air behind her shifted as Gabriel came to stand at her back.

"Can you breathe?" he asked.

"Yeah." Audrey sagged against the doorjamb. The sudden wave of panic was gone, but in its place, the pain and fear was returning, clogging her throat and making her feel sick. A rushing sound rose in her ears, and Audrey knew she was going to cry a second before the first tear came.

She stayed there as she cried, propped against the doorframe and letting the tears silently down her cheeks. It took all she had to keep her breath from hitching, saving her ribs from the pain, and she trembled with the effort it took to breathe in and out, slow and even. Gabriel remained behind her as she cried without moving or saying anything, but somehow, his bulk at her back was comforting.

Audrey didn't cry for long—only a few minutes—and when she was done, she sighed a deep, heavy sigh and stood up.

"I want to say hello to Apple," she decided aloud, a little bit of petulance in her voice, and looked up at Gabriel. He looked from her to the horse in the field, some several hundred yards away, and said, "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"I see." Gabriel bent his elbow, offering her his arm, and acted as Audrey's support as he helped her across the yard, then into the field.

Apple looked up as they approached, his ears pricking forward in curiosity. Once they were a few feet away, Gabriel stopped, and Audrey pulled away from him to hop a step closer.

"Hi," she said, voice soft. Apple raised his head, eyeing her warily. Audrey held out her good hand, beckoning. Apple considered her for a moment, and then crossed the small gap between them to nudge his nose into Audrey's palm.

"Give him this," Gabriel said from behind her, and his hand appeared in her peripheral vision, depositing a peppermint into her palm. Audrey unwrapped the candy and offered it; Apple's ears pricked up and he took the candy with a delicate and fuzzy brush of his lips against her palm.

Audrey giggled.

Apple took a step closer, nudging at her hips, where pockets would be. Audrey wavered, then grabbed onto his mane for balance. Apple stopped and turned his head to look at her, considering the state of the little human attached to his neck, and then reached a conclusion and whickered at her before resuming his grazing.

Audrey sighed happily and leaned against him. Apple was warm and soft, a comforting weight under her. She could hear his heartbeat if she pressed her ear against his ribs, and the sound was large, slow, and reassuring. It was lovely.

She stayed like that, leaned against Apple, her eyes closed, for a long while. Apple grazed placidly, occasionally lifting his head and sighing to warn her as he took a step in one direction or another to continue. He was big, and peaceful, and alive… and Audrey hadn't felt that for way, way too long.

Some long time later, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. The wind had changed, and the warm air had cooled. Audrey turned her head, squinting against the orange glare of the setting sun. It was later than she thought.

Apple stopped moving when she did, glancing back at her with his ears raised. He didn't know what was going on, but he didn't want her to fall. Audrey reached forward and scratched his forehead, working her fingers under the curl of hair there, then around into the soft hair behind his ears. Apple extended his neck and curled his lips in ecstasy, and Audrey giggled.

She turned, then, and looked for Gabriel. She'd half expected him to be behind her, but he wasn't, and it took her a minute to find him: he was leaning against the gate, arms folded loosely, watching them.

Audrey waved.

Gabriel pushed off the fence and walked toward them. "He's nice," Audrey called, when Gabriel was within hearing distance.

"He is." Gabriel scratched Apple's rump, earning a sigh of pleasure from the horse. "He is also very vocal. Are you done?"

"Yeah…" Audrey petted Apple's neck a few more times. "I want to spend more time with him."

"There is no one stopping you." Gabriel offered Audrey his arm, and helped her back to the house.

Audrey headed straight for her makeshift beanbag beside the bookcase, easing herself down into the cushion. Her panic and her anger was gone; it had dissolved with Apple's heartbeat, and now all she felt was pain, but it was pushed to the back of her mind. Right now, she wanted to read about Princess Buttercup, and Wesley, and the power of the magic man. That was a far better world.

Gabriel warmed up some more beans, made some more toast, and then sat down with his own massive book and placed the plate between them. They stayed that way for hours, silent save for the rustle of pages, the crunch of the toast and, once, the rustle of Gabriel's wings as he left to return Apple to his stall.

They had, Audrey realized, some time late that night, a system. It was a weird, crooked system, but it was a system, and it existed because of their books, and one old affectionate horse.

And maybe a plate of beans and toast.

* * *

><p>The monologue is Puck's, from a Midsummer Night's Dream. I don't remember the act or scene, but it's early in the play.<p>

There will be more Shakespeare later, and it'll all be relevant, I promise. I won't plug your ears [eyes?] with gratuitous quotes. :]


	6. Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

The longest chapter yet. And almost exactly a week after the last one! Oh my, it's almost like a regular update schedule. Must avoid that.

Plenty of emotions in this chapter; it's a bit all over the place, but it's a catharsis. I'm not sure if it'll work as well for you, dear readers, as it did for me, so please let me know what you think.

As always, an abundance of love for your attention.

xoxo

* * *

><p>Audrey woke up the next morning on the old mattress in the back room, covered by an old quilt that smelled of spices. There was another rolled up blanket under her head, to serve as a pillow. She pushed herself into a sitting position and blinked down at her surroundings, very confused.<p>

She must have fallen asleep while reading—the last thing she remembered was a fiery golem and a very grumbly Fezzik. But if she'd fallen asleep while reading, then Gabriel had put her in bed, and given her a blanket, and made her a pillow.

"Wow," she whispered softly. He was being so _nice._

And then she caught sight of what sat at the foot of the bed.

It was wooden, and knobby, and long, and had a u-shaped curve at the top, and a protruding handle about halfway down. Audrey reached across the bed and picked it up. _"Really?_" she wondered aloud, hefting it. It wasn't too heavy, but it felt sturdy. She placed the end on the ground and used it to lever herself out of bed, then tucked the curve into her armpit. She took a moment to steady herself, and then hobbled her way out of the bedroom and down the hall.

Gabriel wasn't in the house. Audrey made her way to the front door, threw it open, and hobbled out into the yard. Gabriel was crouched by the fence, doing something to one of the lower beams.

"Gabriel!" Audrey yelled, louder than was necessary. He glanced over his shoulder, then stood and walked toward her.

"Yes?" he asked, when he was close enough to speak quietly and still be heard.

"Did you make me this?" Audrey gestured at him with the crutch.

"Yes." Gabriel frowned at it. "It's a little too long—give it to me."

"No." Audrey took a small hop backwards, keeping her crutch away from him. "It's perfect just how it is."

Gabriel stared at her for a moment. Audrey jutted out her chin defiantly, biting at her lip to hide the smile, and stared back at him.

"… It's too long," he repeated, finally, his voice much gentler than it had been before. "I need to shorten it, or it will become uncomfortable."

"I like it how it is."

"I can make it better."

"… Fine." Audrey propped herself against the doorway and handed Gabriel the crutch. He pulled his knife from its sheath and knelt down there on the stoop to whittle about an inch off the bottom of the shaft, then turned the crutch in his hands and began to smooth down the surface of the curve and the handle.

"Why?" Audrey asked after a little bit.

"'Why' what?" Gabriel replied, without looking up.

"Why did you make it for me?"

"Because you need it." Gabriel ran his hand across the surface he'd just shaved down, then stood and handed the crutch back to Audrey. "You cannot continue hopping around and holding onto the nearest handhold."

"Oh." Audrey tucked the crutch under her arm. Gabriel was right—it did fit better. "Thank you, Gabriel."

Gabriel sheathed his knife and nodded to her. "You are welcome, Audrey. Are you hungry?"

"Yeah, a little." Audrey looked down at her flannel-clad tummy, and it grumbled as if on cue.

"I will prepare food, then," Gabriel replied, and allowed her to step inside the house ahead of him before he went to the kitchen. "Something other than beans and toast."

Audrey smiled.

* * *

><p>After Gabriel made breakfast, he returned to the field to finish repairing the rail of the fence, and Audrey, mobilized by her new accessory, followed him out. She brought her book, and sat on the ground while Gabriel whittled down the broken strut and repaired it. It took an hour or two, and in that time, Audrey lost herself completely in the novel. When Gabriel stood up, straightening his back with the smallest of exhales and a rustle of wings, she looked up in surprise.<p>

"Done?" she asked, arbitrarily. Gabriel nodded.

"There are a few more rails I will need to mend, but it will do." He turned his head, looking across the property, and then said, "Come with me."

"Where?" Audrey asked, putting her book down. Gabriel said nothing, only extended a hand to her. Audrey took it. She tucked her crutch under her arm, decided her book would be safe where it was, and followed him as he walked over to the gate and into the field.

Apple looked up as the gate creaked, ears forward, and then ambled toward them, still chewing his last mouthful of grass. Gabriel greeted him with a gentle pat on his neck, and then turned to Audrey and said, "Give me your crutch."

Audrey frowned warily at him. Gabriel waited, patient and unyielding, and Audrey eventually handed it over, leaning her weight against Apple's side. Gabriel set the crutch on the ground, then said, "Do not panic", reached down, and took hold of Audrey's hips.

She yelped.

"Don't struggle," Gabriel repeated, and, when Audrey had swallowed her initial freakout and was still, he lifted her, turned, and set her on Apple's back.

"Oh." Audrey stared down at the broad, warm body between her legs. "… What?"

"Horses are naturally therapeutic animals." Gabriel moved to stand in front of Apple, placing a hand on his neck. "Hold onto his mane with your good hand."

Audrey obeyed by gently taking hold of the tips of his mane, afraid of hurting Apple. Gabriel glanced back and frowned.

"You will fall off if you hold so lightly. You will not hurt him. Hold on the way you would if there were a pair of reins there." Audrey shifted her grip. "More." She shifted it again. "More, Audrey. You are too gentle."

"No," Audrey snapped. "I don't want to hurt him!"

Gabriel shook his head, took hold of her hand, and twisted her fingers in the base of Apple's mane. Audrey half expected Apple to jump, or at least glare back at her, but the gelding didn't even twitch.

"Horses are resilient animals. This is like holding his hand, for him. Don't be afraid." Gabriel let go of Audrey's hand and moved back to Apple's face, where he scratched Apple gently between the ears, catching the horse's attention, and then made a soft clucking noise.

Apple's ears pricked forward, and he started to move.

The first step was a jostle, and made Audrey hiss with pain when it banged her leg and ribs. Gabriel glanced up, but didn't stop, and after a minute or two, Audrey understood why he had put her on the horse. Apple's walk was smooth and soft. If she let her legs just hang, they didn't bounce, they moved with Apple's sides. Every shift of Apple's spine made Audrey's torso move, but it was gentle, almost like rocking—like she was a child in a hammock. For the first time since she'd woken up, Audrey fully relaxed.

Gabriel walked Apple around the perimeter of the field for upwards of an hour. When Apple's gait began to droop, he led the horse back to where they'd left Audrey's crutch, and then lifted Audrey off the horse and set her back down on her foot, as easily as lifting a doll.

"You're strong," Audrey noted, as she tucked her crutch under her arm.

"I am," Gabriel agreed, and didn't seem to understand why Audrey laughed.

While Gabriel gave Apple an apple to thank him, and returned to mending the fence, Audrey went back to her book. When she finished it, she got up on her own two feet and went back inside, delighting at how she could move on her own. Audrey went to the bathroom and changed her clothes, switching from the boxers and flannel shirt to a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of pajama pants—she couldn't fit anything tighter over her splint—and threw on the flannel shirt as a jacket before picking a new book and hobbling back outside. She sat on the stoop, angled so the sun hit her side and warmed her face, and read for hours. Gabriel repaired four more lengths of fence, then went and got his massive volume of Shakespeare and sat down beside her.

After a while, Audrey put her book aside. Gabriel looked up at the rustle of the pages, and watched her for a moment, and then returned his attention to his book. Audrey laid down, resting her head on the corner of the stoop, and closed her eyes.

After about ten minutes of just loving the sun on her face, she spoke up.

"Hey Gabriel?"

"Yes?" he asked, without moving.

"Will you read me something else?"

Gabriel shifted, the pages and his wings rustling. "What?"

"Shakespeare." Audrey cracked open one eye, peering at him. "It makes a little more sense when you read it."

"I see." Gabriel turned the pages silently. Audrey waited. After a minute or two, the pages stopped moving, and Gabriel began to read:

_I have of late, but wherefore I know not, _

_lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercise, _

_and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition _

_that this goodly frame the Earth, _

_seems to me a most sterile promontory._

_ This grand o'erhanging firmament,_

_the air, look you,_

_This majestical roof fretted with golden fire,_

_Why it seems nothing more to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors. _

_What a piece of work is man!_

_How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties!_

_In form and moving, how express and admirable!_

_In action, how like an angel!_

_In apprehension, how like a god!_

_The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!_

_And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?_

_Man delights not me. _

His voice ended into silence. Gabriel looked at the page a moment longer, then lifted his head and looked at Audrey. Audrey stared at him, and said nothing.

"You…" she started, finally, and then stopped. Gabriel waited, his eyes on her face.

"You're mean," Audrey whispered, got her crutch, pulled herself to her feet, and went inside.

* * *

><p>Gabriel stared at the page in his hands, confused. He didn't understand Audrey's behavior. Every time he'd read Shakespeare to her, she'd had an adverse reaction. The previous instance had been a bit more severe, but this time confused him more. She had asked to hear some of Shakespeare's work, and yet had become so upset.<p>

_What is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me. _

_ Man delights not me. _

Gabriel sighed and frowned. Of course. He should have given that more forethought. The monologue was beautiful, but it had been a poor choice. Regardless of Hamlet's suicidal tendencies and his internal battle with the futility of his humanity, an apocalypse had just occurred. Humans were suggestible creatures, who found pattern and hidden meaning everywhere they looked. To read Audrey, a young, impressionable girl, a monologue that clearly lamented the reality of humans was not a wise choice.

His brow furrowed further, and he set the book down. He cared how Audrey felt, and that was new. Everything he'd done had been to ensure her health and continuing recovery. The food was for her nutrition. The books were for her entertainment. The clothes were for her warmth, and modesty. He had placed her in her bed last night, but that had been to prevent her from twisting her ribs. The crutch was to enable her to move on her own, so that he wouldn't need to escort her everywhere beyond the house. She was restless when she was inside, even when she read; she often shifted her weight, moving around on her cushion or changing how she held her book. He had only seen her truly still when she was in the sun, resting beside the fence or leaning against Apple's bulk.

Gabriel paused. He had not realized how aware of her he had become. Michael had watched humans before, had marveled at their movement and found amusement in their small peculiarities, and Gabriel had never understood—or approved.

Now, though, he wasn't sure of his disapproval. Somewhere, deep in the memory of Michael's affection for humans, was a tiny grain of sense.

Gabriel stood, forcing away his nostalgia. He felt a need to make sure that Audrey was well, and that she had not lost faith in him. Her trust mattered to him. He did not know why, but at the moment, it was not a relevant question.

Audrey was in her room, sitting on the mattress. She was facing away from the door, but she looked up when Gabriel entered. Her face was very carefully blank, but Gabriel could see the effort it took for her to remain so calm. He moved to stand in front of her. Audrey craned her neck to look up at him. Gabriel paused, and then very slowly lowered himself so that he was on one knee and on her level, and met Audrey's eyes.

"That particular monologue was not a prudent choice," he said, his voice low. Audrey's eyes widened. "It would have been wiser of me to select a more light-hearted monologue; Hamlet is a play about despair and betrayal, and therefore not well-timed."

Audrey watched for a moment, her head tilted slightly to the side. Eventually, she asked, "Is this an apology?"

"No," Gabriel replied immediately, and Audrey smiled.

"I accept it anyway," she said. Then her smile vanished, replaced by a small frown. "Gabriel, what has happened?"

"I do not understand the question."

"The apocalypse. I know… I know about the diner, and the desert, and the emergency broadcast, but is it everywhere? Are there any humans left at all?"

Gabriel frowned. "Yes," he said, carefully. "There are humans left."

"Where?"

"There is a small town past the mountain range to the east, where the child, his mother and the prophet went."

"Is that it?"

Gabriel took a while to answer. "I do not know," he replied, slowly. "There is not a large population left."

"How big is not large?"

"I do not know," Gabriel repeated. "I have not left this desert since the apocalypse."

"Do you have a guess?"

"I already offered it."

"'Not a large population' is not a guess."

"Yes, it is," he corrected. She sighed.

"Fine." Audrey turned her head toward the window, gazing out across the desert. "So it's just us, really."

"And the town; for all intents and purposes, yes."

"But they're far away."

"Approximately fifteen miles."

"So they don't count."

Gabriel saw no point in arguing with her human logic. Audrey hadn't turned back to face him, but her body language didn't indicate that she was done with the conversation, so he waited.

"Gabriel?" she asked, after a long pause.

"Yes?"

"What happens now?"

"It is up to you."

"Well… I can't go anywhere. I can't do anything. I have broken bones and stitches and I can barely move. So I guess I better heal, and then deal with it."

"That is an appropriate course of action."

Audrey looked back at him.

"Can you help me? Don't you have some sort of magical angel powers that'll heal me faster?"

"No," Gabriel replied immediately, and then paused. That wasn't strictly true. If he were to use his G-d-given powers on her, it would be outside the realm of accepted practices… but as long as he only pushed her body to heal faster, instead of healing her bones himself, it wouldn't be taboo. Raphael healed Tobit's blindness, millennia ago, and Yeshua was a healer. G-d had been the only healer for thousands of years, but no angel had lost the ability. He could help.

"Yes," he amended, slowly. "I don't know if it will hurt, but it will speed your healing process."

"How much?"

"By several months."

"I don't care if it hurts, then," Audrey declared, and stuck out her broken wrist. Gabriel looked at it.

"What are you doing?"

"… Showing you my broken arm?"

"Why?"

"So you can heal it?"

"Don't end your sentences as questions." Gabriel touched her forearm, pushing her arm down. "It will have to wait until tomorrow. I will need sleep."

"Aren't angels tireless?"

"When they are with G-d, yes. But I am not, and so I must sleep, and eat, as you do."

"Why aren't you with G-d?"

Gabriel fell silent. Audrey tilted her head, watching him patiently.

"That requires a complicated answer of which I am not entirely sure," he replied finally, his voice quiet.

"Okay." Audrey replied, equally as quietly, and smiled at him gently—and even, Gabriel thought, a little reassuringly.

He did not need to be reassured.

Gabriel stood. "There is nothing I can do for you now," he told her. "I will continue reading."

"I will, too." Audrey took her crutch and pulled herself to her feet. Gabriel was pleased by how easily she moved, and let her leave the room first so that he could supervise how well she walked. She seemed to have adapted to the crutch quite quickly.

They returned to the sunlight outside and retrieved their books. Audrey lay down on the patch of grass beside the house, and Gabriel sat on the small concrete step and let the sun warm his wings. He had begun to read Hamlet, but found himself put off of the tragedy for the time being, so he flipped to Twelfth Night and contented himself with that.

After a time, Audrey set her book aside and lay on her back, staring up at the clouds. Gabriel observed her for a few moments, and then returned to his words. She looked content, and that surprised him. He had not expected her to adjust so quickly to the state of things. But it was all for the best.

That night, Gabriel moved Audrey's mattress into the front room as per her request; she explained that she didn't like being 'shoved' away in the back room. As far as Gabriel was concerned, it allowed him to keep a closer eye on her, in case she rolled over or fell off the bed in her sleep, and that was justification enough.

He prepared food again, privately frowning at their stores. A young woman and an archangel went through a loaf of bread quite quickly, and the chips would be gone soon after that. The cans would last, but they would not provide adequate nutrition. He would need to leave again in a few days to find more food, and a week after that, they would likely need to leave this location entirely. It would be better to be in a city, somewhere where they could access abandoned stores. Somewhere where they were not the only souls in a vast sea of nothing. The planet was near bereft of human life, but Gabriel had been trained to be a military commander, and didn't enjoy the comparison he saw between himself and a sitting duck.

Gabriel considered that as he drove his knife through the lid of a can and began to carve it open. He had been something other than a soldier once, before the apocalypse. Michael had been the Commander, the Leader of G-d's Army, and he, Gabriel, had been the holy messenger. He had delivered the dreams to Joseph, the prophecies to Isaiah, the good word to Mary. He had whispered words into the dreams of the great writers—Aquinas, Petrarch, Dante, Shakespeare himself—and let them do with them what they would. He had carried promises of a better world to men like Ghandi and Martin Luther King, and seen love and peace reign for a short, simple time.

Too short, too simple, and too bloody. Gabriel frowned down at the plate, sitting empty on the counter. Humans were fragile, angry things, too prone to sin and despair. They had ears, but they never, ever listened.

Audrey looked up as he approached. "Thank you," she said, taking her dinner. Gabriel didn't respond. Foolish thing. There was little hope now, in this world; not with the destruction of all these humans held dear. Without business, without oil, without capital or supermarkets or processed sugar, they would have to reinvent themselves. They would have to shake off centuries of cultural corruption, of shallowness and self-centeredness. They would have to learn to love people, instead of loving things, and Gabriel didn't think they could do it.

* * *

><p>Audrey took her dinner, and then sat and watched Gabriel as he returned the few short yards to the kitchen and stood there, staring at the open can of tomatoes. He looked deep in thought, and very angry about whatever it was. After a minute or two of watching him, she decided to do something very stupid, and said, "Gabriel?"<p>

He looked at her.

"What's wrong?"

"No-" The word stuck in his throat, and Audrey remembered what he'd said, about angels not being able to tell a lie. She waited. Gabriel met her gaze for a moment longer, and then looked away.

"It doesn't con-" he started again, choked, then growled and slammed his fist down on the counter.

Audrey jumped. That had been _loud_—and suddenly she was back in the cop car, and swerving down the highway. Audrey closed her eyes and pressed her good hand against them, forcing herself out of the memory—_no, _she was _here,_ she was _alive_.

"Gabriel?" she repeated, much softer. Her voice was shaking. She hated that, hated that he could hear every change in her voice, but she was also pretty sure he had just cracked the counter, and that was fucking terrifying.

"You are a fool," Gabriel said. His voice was tightly controlled and rumbled deep in his chest, and that scared her almost as much as his fist had, at least until his words registered.

Despite her fear, Audrey found it in herself to straighten up indignantly. "No I'm not!"

"You are," Gabriel turned and frowned at her. "You are a young, foolish girl. You don't know anything of responsibility. You are inconsistent, angry, violent without cause. You know what is good for you, and ignore it to pursue insignificant pleasures. You think compassion and kindness make you weak, you are impatient, rash and shortsighted. You are a fool."

Audrey flinched with every sentence. She had a feeling he wasn't just talking about her, but that didn't change the fact that he was right.

"Well, what about you?" she snapped. Gabriel raised an eyebrow at her, pulled briefly out of his anger.

"What about me?"

"You're not perfect, either, or you'd be with G-d, wouldn't you? You're always angry, except when you're with Apple. You're not all that compassionate yourself—you tried to _kill_ me!—and you sure aren't very patient! And you're not very nice, since you said all those awful things."

"They are true."

"I didn't say they weren't!" Audrey yanked her crutch toward her and pulled herself to her feet, tired of feeling like he was always looking down on her. "I'm not saying I'm perfect! I've got enough shit of my own to deal with… I had to deal with, anyway! I've hurt people and I've done bad things. G-d knows I was mean enough to my parents." She clenched her fists, ignoring the tweak of pain in her wrist. Now Gabriel'd gone and made her mad at herself, too. "I've done stupid shit, Gabriel, like every other human!"

"Then you are all fools," he grumbled.

"I KNOW!" Audrey screamed. Gabriel's frown vanished, replaced by surprise, but it was blurred—Audrey's eyes were filling. _Oh fuck, not again_, she thought, and scrubbed furiously at her eyes with the back of her arm as she continued. "We're all fucked up! We ruined this planet and we screwed up each other, and we're always killing and destroying and burning down houses and taking drugs and fucking around and kicking puppies! I know! It's my fault this happened, I'm as bad as anyone else! It's my fault we're terrible, it's my fault my parents are dead! I know!"

Suddenly, Gabriel was in front of her, and his hands were around her fists. Audrey yanked away, ignoring her crutch as it fell to the side, ignoring the pain in her wrist as she pulled on it—but Gabriel noticed, and switched his grip to her forearms. Audrey fought against his hold, angry at him for what he'd said, and angry at him for making her angry, and scared, very scared, of his anger; she wanted nothing more than for him to let her go, to run out to the field and hide behind Apple's bulk, because she knew that even if Gabriel decided to kill her, he wouldn't hurt Apple—and then Gabriel said her name, once, deep and soft and firm, and she stopped fighting. She looked up at him through her tears, her forearms raised to hide her face, and said nothing.

"It is very proud of you to assume that this is all your fault," Gabriel told her. Audrey glared and him and yanked against his grip again. _Asshole_. Gabriel waited until she gave up fighting, then spoke. "Your parents' death was not your fault. You humans are all in complete control of your own fate; you can change no one's actions but your own, and that seems to be your greatest misunderstanding. You are not a bad person, Audrey."

"How do _you_ know?" she snarled. Gabriel let go of her wrists and paused to make sure she could keep her balance, then bent and picked up her crutch.

"Because," he said, slipping it under her arm, "I have seen your actions over the last four days. You have acted with restraint and integrity, for a girl in your situation."

"I thought you said humans were rash and stupid," Audrey retorted, eyeing him warily. She didn't trust his niceness.

"I didn't say stupid," Gabriel corrected. "I said impatient and shortsighted, but not stupid."

"Same thing."

Gabriel didn't contradict her. "Audrey, I know your secrets."

"Yeah, right," Audrey snorted. "You don't have a clue."

"I do." Gabriel shook his head. "I have seen the worst things humans can do. I have watched men your kind elected to leadership carry out genocides, massacring millions of people. I have seen fathers rape their daughters, mothers beat their sons. I have seen absolute despair consume young men and women as they throw their hearts away for sex and drugs. I have seen your kind poison their bodies, abandon their souls, torture others with words and actions to find some shred of emotion in the power they create for themselves. I have seen children dying in the streets, desperate for a scrap or bread or a drop of water, and I have seen thousands of men and women pass those children by without a second glance. I have seen power corrupt and destroy your people, and I have seen those who could make a change and stand up for their rights hide behind their computer screens and video games until it is too late to do anything but lay down and die. I have seen it _all_, Audrey. You have done foolish things, perhaps even cruel things, but you are not a bad person."

"But I'm not a good person," Audrey whispered to the ground. She had no fight left. Everything Gabriel was saying was true.

"Perhaps you are." Gabriel reached forward then, and Audrey flinched away instinctively—but he only touched her chin, raising it so she was forced to meet his eyes. "You have an entire lifetime to find the strength to be one."

"An entire lifetime," Audrey echoed. An entire lifetime. Five days ago, she was minutes from death. And then this one, this archangel, had come along and decided to save her. She still didn't know _why_, but he _had_, and that was what mattered.

"Right," she said quietly. "Thank you, for that."

For the first time, Gabriel smiled. It was a tiny little curve at the corner of his mouth, almost invisible, but it was there. "You are welcome," he told her, and let go of her chin.

Audrey's skin tingled where his fingers had been. She touched it, almost unconsciously—her fingers were small and soft, where his had been rough and callused. Gabriel's eyes slid over her hand, but he didn't comment.

"You should eat," he told her. "We'll both need our strength if I am going to heal you tomorrow morning."

"We both need our strength?" Audrey asked, as she eased herself back down onto her beanbag. "Won't you be doing all the work?"

Gabriel went to the kitchen to get his own food as he replied. "I'll be facilitating it, but your body will be healing itself. I am only speeding it up. It will be burning your energy, and your calories, so eat well, and sleep early."

"Yes sir," she mumbled as she took a bite out of her toast. Gabriel glanced at her from the kitchen, and she could tell he was checking her for mockery or sarcasm, but she hadn't meant either. Gabriel evidently could tell, because he just shook his head slightly and brought his own plate to join her on the floor.

They ate, and Audrey read her new book—something about Camelot—until she began to yawn. It didn't take long; the book wasn't very good. As soon as her jaw cracked for the second time, Gabriel stood and slipped the book from her hands. "Go to bed," he ordered gently, and Audrey obeyed, hobbling the few steps to the mattress and curling up under the quilt. Gabriel refolded her pillow and gave it back to her, then sat down beside the mattress and stayed there. The last thing Audrey saw before she fell asleep was his wings, massive, blue, silver, black and strong in the moonlight from the window.


	7. Life

I'm sorry about the awful wait, I really am.

I've run out of steam with this; I wanted to wait to update until I had a buffer, but I still don't have one, and you all deserve this. I'm still getting little "story watch" and "story favourite" emails, and it makes me smile, and also feel guilty.

I'm not going to abandon this story; there's too much that needs to be told, one way or another. I'm not promising I'll tell it well, but I will tell it.

Muchlove. xoxo

* * *

><p>Audrey awoke mid-morning, and squinted at the sun in her eyes.<p>

"You're awake," Gabriel said. "Good." He appeared at her side and handed her a purple mug. "Drink this."

Audrey sniffed at it; it smelled weirdly sweet. "What is it?"

"Juice concentrate from one of the fruit cans. The simple sugars will give you energy."

Audrey sipped at it, cautious, then swallowed the rest in a few gulps. It was strong, but not gross.

"Good." Gabriel came around to the other side of her, so the sun was hitting his back, and sat on his knees at the edge of the bed.

"You're acting like this is major surgery, or something." Audrey moved the blanket and made to sit up.

"Don't move." Gabriel pulled the quilt away, exposing Audrey's skin to the chilly air, and ignored her gasp of surprise. "This is, for all intents and purposes. It is not as dangerous, but it will have the same effect on your body."

"Will I be sore afterwards?" Audrey asked.

"No." Gabriel took the hem of the pantleg covering her broken calf and began to fold it backwards, easing it over the cast. "But you will be very tired, as will I."

"Did you even sleep last night?" Audrey wondered.

"Yes. Stop talking." Gabriel flexed his fingers in an oddly human gesture, then settled his hands around the break in her leg. Audrey raised her head to watch, curious—would it glow, like the magic in movies? That wouldn't have surprised her.

It didn't. Gabriel closed his eyes, and parted his lips. A rush of wind came from between them, too strong to be a sigh, too sweet to be a whisper. His hands warmed around the break, and Audrey felt a sudden rush in her ears and hollowness in her head. Her fingers tingled, and then she was suddenly, sharply aware of her pulse beating in her calf. It didn't hurt, but it was fierce and steady, thrumming under her skin. Audrey's head fell back to rest on her makeshift pillow, and she closed her eyes.

It was all she could do to just lay there and be; she was so intensely aware of everything about her, of her heartbeat, of the flutter of her eyes beneath her lids, of the movement of her diaphragm as she breathed—in, out, in, out. She could feel her goosebumps under Gabriel's hands, feel the irritation of a speck of dirt under her fingernail, feel the shift of the mattress under her skin. She was so _alive._

_In, out. In, out. _

Thousands of breaths passed. Gabriel moved to her arm. Audrey opened her eyes and turned her head on the pillow, watching him as he silently pushed back the sleeve of her flannel and cradled her wrist in his hands. She looked so delicate, under his fingers; her wrist was tiny and fragile, and broken. So broken. But this time, Audrey didn't feel pain, or regret at the realization, she only knew it to be a fact. Her wrist was broken. So was her leg. So were her ribs. Her neck was bruised and her skin was torn. She was alive.

Her wrist warmed in Gabriel's hands. She gazed at the contrast between their skin through half-lidded eyes for longer than she knew, mesmerized by the flutter of her pulse under her bruised skin.

Then he laid her wrist down on the mattress and shifted, taking the hem of her shirt in his fingers and raising it. Audrey could feel goosebumps rise as the cotton glided over her skin. Gabriel folded the shirt up delicately to cover her bust, then placed his hands, fingers spread, over the broken ribs. Again, his lips parted, and again, the sigh came. Their skin warmed.

His face was so gentle, Audrey marveled, watching the shift of muscles under his skin. His eyes were half-closed, focused on his hands and whatever was going through his head at the same time. His lips were still parted, and that same rushing breath was still coming and going, in and out. Soft. He was so big, and so strong, and could be so cruel, but he was so gentle.

He really was kind. To heal her, to take care of her, when he could just as easily have dumped her into the village over the mountains and left her there? Whatever his responsibility, he was here, caring for her, doing more than leaving her on bed rest and forcing her to stay together. He helped her live.

Audrey closed her eyes.

She could feel his calluses against her skin, softly rasping. Warm. A tiny speck of warmth that grew and grew until it covered her whole body, pooling at her leg, her wrist, her arms, her ribs, her chin—places he had touched. So gentle. Audrey was swimming in that warmth, floating in it. She felt so little, this tiny fragment of a thing in this massive sky of everything else, of warmth and light and horses and angels and Gabriel's hands on her ribs, coaxing her body to heal, to reknit bones and repair muscles.

Audrey was alive.

After what felt like seconds and days, Gabriel removed his hands from her ribs and replaced her shirt. Audrey turned to look at him, and found suddenly that she was too tired to lift her head from the pillow.

"Wow," she mumbled, squashing a yawn before it began. "I'm so tired…"

"Yes." Gabriel was drooping a little himself. His eyes were still half-shuttered, and his wings weren't held quite so high. "It will be easier next time, as your body adjusts. There was a lot of healing to do."

"Yeah." Audrey yawned on that one, and Gabriel's mouth twitched as he replaced the blanket over her.

"Go back to sleep."

"Okay." She shifted a little, making herself comfortable, and then slid her good arm across the mattress—she was too tired to lift it—and touched Gabriel's elbow with her fingers. He looked down at her touch with a hint of surprise, and then back up at her.

"Yes?"

"Stay."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow, his surprise magnified. Audrey yawned, and then clarified: "You have to sleep, too. Stay here."

"Why?"

"You just made me alive." She yawned again, her jaw cracking.

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Stay," Audrey repeated, too tired to care about giving rational answers, and closed her eyes.

Gabriel's wings rustled, and she felt the mattress shift as he moved beside it. "Yes," he said quietly, and did not move his elbow away from her touch. His elbow was rough, too, rough and cracked from years of use, and Audrey moved her fingers in miniscule amounts as she drifted off, running her fingertips over the same tiny patch of skin over and over, like a child with a favorite blanket.

The next time Audrey awoke, it was to Gabriel beside her with a can of soup in his hands. "Drink," he said, and Audrey wanted to obey, but she could barely lift her head. Gabriel slipped his hand behind her neck and cradled the base of her skull in his palm, lifting her head so she could swallow the soup.

"What's going on?" Audrey asked, in between sips. Her head was spinning and her body felt heavy and useless.

"You are undergoing weeks' worth of repair in a few hours." Gabriel moved his thumb on the nape of her neck, reminding her to drink again. "Your body is exhausted."

"Tell me about it," Audrey mumbled, but all that came out was "mmnph." What little energy she had was gone, spent taking those few gulps of canned soup.

"Sleep," Gabriel commanded, laying her head down on the pillow, and replaced the blanket over her. Audrey obeyed.

She swam in and out of wakefulness, roused by food or Gabriel or the occasional need to go to the bathroom—which always took all of her strength, but which she did on her own, _thank_ you. Gabriel's healing sessions were patches of golden sunlight and warm life among dreams that were blue and nonsensical and, as time went on, more and more frightening: monsters with huge shadowy wings, and eyeless faces, and sharks with smiles a mile wide; guns that burst into flame and ate her from the inside out; little children turning into old grandmothers turning into flies that wiggled down her throat and clogged up her nose and poured out her mouth and _buzzed_ until Audrey awoke in a spasm of panic and pain—and Gabriel would appear beside the bed, and touch her forehead, and replace the quilts, and sit beside the mattress. Audrey would turn towards him and close her eyes, would reach out with a soft fingertip and gently touch his elbow where he always rested it, leaning on the mattress, and that tiny connection would comfort her and chase the nightmares away so she could sleep again.

Gabriel had not expected the healing to take such a toll on her body.

Admittedly, it had been centuries since any Archangel had directly healed a human. G-d was always the divine intervener, and the healing He charged them with occurred on a miniscule scale, adjusting molecular reactions and cell regeneration. The humans would absorb the changes and heal on their own.

But this was different. Gabriel was going into Audrey's broken bones and rallying the troops, as humans would say. He was Commanding hundreds of millions of cells to work together, to burn calories, regenerate, regrow and repair. It was exhausting work.

It was also exhilarating. Every time Gabriel placed his hands over Audrey's skin and Spoke, it was as if a small piece of Heaven resonated in his chest. The amount of Life he was pouring into the young woman's body was more than most humans acknowledged in a lifetime. He knew Audrey could sense it, too, though she wouldn't have any idea what it was; as soon as the first Word issued forth from his lips, her face took on a glow, and an expression of fascination unlike any he had seen in years. He knew she was feeling the pulse of her heart and the thrum of her body in a way she never had before, and it was a beautiful thing. That much, he readily admitted.

The side effects were more concerning. Audrey fell asleep almost as soon as he finished the first Healing, and didn't awake for almost a full day. He eventually resorted to rousing her, concerned by her lack of sustenance, though she consumed little before falling back asleep. After a few days of the same pattern, Gabriel was reassured that she was simply sleeping to recuperate from the Healing, and it was his repeated sessions that kept her asleep.

The dreams were more alarming. They first appeared a week after the first Healing, and he could hear Audrey's scream from the pasture.

She was tossing fitfully on the mattress when he entered the house, in more haste that he'd ordinarily admit. He crouched by the bed and touched her shoulder, and when that didn't work, said, "Audrey!"

She awoke suddenly, sharply, and blinked up at him deliriously before gasping in a breath that was not tainted with dreams, and grabbing at his wrist.

"Don't leave," she whispered, and Gabriel, perplexed, had complied. He sat down beside the bed and rested his arm on the mattress. Audrey let go of his wrist to touch his elbow, as she had after the first Healing, and closed her eyes.

Her hands were small and soft against his skin, almost too much so to be noticed. Nonetheless, Gabriel was well aware of the stroke of her finger over his elbow, again and again, the same patch of skin. It was a strange, unconscious movement, clearly one of self-comfort, but it was not unpleasant, and he let her continue.

The second time she had the nightmares, and then the third and the fourth, the routine was the same: Gabriel heard her scream from somewhere beyond the front room, awoke her with a Word, and then stayed at her side until she fell back asleep. Soon, he began to pick up on a pattern: the nightmares only came six to seven hours after a Healing, and grew in strength over the period of half an hour to an hour before Audrey cried out. Gabriel began to adjust his schedule so that he could be inside and near her when the nightmares began, so that he could forestall them earlier. He didn't always catch them before they reached a peak, but sometimes, he could see Audrey shifting in her sleep or furrowing her brow, and that signal was enough.

Now that Gabriel was aware of how much attention he paid Audrey, he could track his own observations. He knew when he began to notice the rhythm of her breathing (two days), when he started tarrying beside the mattress after she fell asleep (four days), when he began to impulsively fix the quilt around her (five days), when he became able to predict the cycle of her hunger, her dreams, her fits of wakefulness to tend to her needs (one week). He couldn't explain his attention to her. She was nothing special—just a small, young woman, scarred in the way many humans were scarred, who had stayed alive and fiery through the apocalypse, who had the strength to trust him and the willingness to forgive him.

He did not feel a need to find a reason.

Between the Healings, feeding Audrey, and taking care of Apple, Gabriel found himself suitably occupied. He read less than he would have liked; taking care of his charges consumed his reading time, and what time he had left was inevitably spent sleeping. Gabriel did not need to sleep as much or as deeply as Audrey did, but he still needed to sleep, and he did so beside the mattress, situated so that the rising sun or moon always struck his back through the uncovered window. The change in light always roused him, allowing him to keep track of the days, and then weeks, as they passed.

Audrey healed. Apple grew healthier, and fatter. The rest of the house beyond the basement, front room and bathroom, grew dusty from disuse. The barn grew cleaner from the attention. The apples ran out. Occasional short scouting trips were made to retrieve food and water as their supplies were depleted. Gabriel watched over them all, and time went by.


End file.
